For the Life of One Man
by Miss Mungoe
Summary: Her rank notwithstanding, the lives of her men were her responsibility, and she wasn't about to leave him to rot in a Drachman cell if she could help it. It didn't matter if it was a suicide mission; he'd do the same for her in a heartbeat. – pre-series; Olivier/Buccaneer, but mostly Olivier being a boss.
1. Part 1

AN: Set some years before the start of Brotherhood. Established Olivier/Buccaneer, but it's mainly Olivier-centric, and written because it's about damn time the lady was sent to rescue the man. Rated T for language, fisticuffs and mentions (and possible cases) of adult shenanigans.

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

* * *

**For the Life of One Man**

by Miss Mungoe

* * *

**Part 1**

She'd known something had gone wrong the minute the patrol made it back to Briggs.

It slithered along her skin, drumming a dark knowledge into her marrow and her mind as she watched the lone figures shed their winter camouflage, and realized she couldn't spot the familiar bulk amongst them, nor could she hear the booming sound of his laughter that signalled a mission gone well. They'd been gone longer than planned, but the weather had done a turn for the worse and the general assumption had been that they'd found refuge somewhere from the storm. But going by the vivid red smears against the white camouflage coats, and the visibly smaller number that returned than what had set out, that had not been the case.

An ache like a lingering frostbite rested heavy like a stone beneath her ribcage, but she'd never been one for grieving openly, and so when she approached them it was with the same professionalism she'd have extended if they'd come back in full numbers.

"What happened?"

Looks were exchanged, and her brows furrowed sharply at the sight. Death was simple for Briggs soldiers – it was part of their lives as surely as the snow beneath their feet and the frost in their veins. With death you knew what you signed up for – an eternity in Heaven or Hell, all depending on the life you'd led. A cold corpse had no laments in life, and the general consensus in Briggs was to not shed tears for the fallen. If there'd been death to report, there'd have been no look. Death was clean and final and the news was delivered in much the same manner.

But _capture_, now that was infinitely worse. Capture warranted an exchanging of worried glances.

"They surprised us, ma'am," one spoke up, a particularly battle-worn young man with a field-dressed wound peeking out from under his thick wool shirt. "The Captain–" he hesitated. "The Captain made us go ahead, sir, and we waited for him, but he didn't catch up. We don't know– Drachma–" he stumbled over his words, and she saw his hands shake where he clenched them tight against his sides.

She let the words settle on her shoulders, and any hope she'd harboured that he'd met his end in battle drained away with the knowledge of his fate. "If the Drachmans have him, he's not dead," she said, voice falling heavy like a conviction, and the soldier flinched at the blunt words. "His face is as known as mine across the border. If they've got him, they won't be letting him die any time soon." _But they'll make him wish they would. _

Now something akin to grief passed over the gathered soldiers' faces, because everyone knew the fates that met those unfortunate enough to find themselves locked up behind enemy lines. Amestris might not have the cleanest track record as far as military states went, but Drachma – Drachma was notorious for its treatment of enemy prisoners. If Drachma had him, they might have a chance at finding him alive, but the state he'd be in was another matter entirely. The thought crawled across her skin like something dark, but she refused to let herself succumb to helplessness. Ineptitude was a crutch, and one she wasn't willing to grab onto for all the comfort in the world.

"Major General Armstrong Ma'am!"

Raising her gaze, she nodded at the approaching soldier. Buccaneer's second-in-command, she noted. "Soldier."

He saluted with a grim press of his lips. "I'm sad to relay the news, sir. We would not have left him, but the Captain was...persistent."

She pursed her lips. _You don't need to tell me. _"I've no time for laments, soldier. There'll be time enough for that if we find the corpse, but not before." She put deliberate emphasis on the _if_, and surprise flickered in his hard gaze. She smirked, and made to turn away.

"Ma'am?" She cast a glance over her shoulder, and noted that the remains of Buccaneer's patrol squad had gathered. Grim resolution lingered on the faces of some, grief on others. And in one face, the Briggs determination that was at once her living pride and her legacy glittered bright like ice under the Northern sun. "Might we ask what you intend to do, Major General sir?" he asked, and she noticed it was the one with the wound. The one who'd looked ready to give up, but who now looked a second away from going back over the border at her behest if she so commanded.

She smirked, but for all her confidence, it felt distinctly grim. "All in due time, soldier," she said. His zeal notwithstanding, there were matters that needed to be taken care of first. Turning back around, she started in the direction of the command centre, muttering under her breath as she went, heavy thoughts lingering on Drachman torture techniques and how long a man could rightly survive without sufficient nutrition and medical attention.

"_All in due time."_

* * *

"You're _what_?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, Olivier watched the faces across the table. Two incredulous expressions and one carefully resigned, but then Major Miles had no doubt to some extent expected her decision. The other two looked torn between incredulity and outright impatience. They were a pair of nondescript Majors who'd been sent up from Central two weeks ago to make sure her running of the Fort was 'up to par', as the Führer's letter had so politely stated. She'd refrained from pointing out how much it smacked of Central's general inability to make her conform to their way of doing things, and had managed a whole fortnight of controlled civility in their presence.

Now, though, her patience was about to be put to the test.

"I'm going across the border," she said calmly, as she might have said 'I'm going to go patrol the wall, gents, see you all in a bit'.

Major Flop-Sweat as she'd personally dubbed him, paled visibly. "B-but General Armstrong–"

"He's one of my best men," she cut him off, impatience thrumming along her veins as she glared across the table. For all the authority she held in Briggs, there were those still clinging to the notion that she needed a leash. "And I won't let Drachma have him if I can help it."

The other one, Major Doesn't-Know-His-Place-From-His-Arse as she'd learned within five minutes of meeting him, rubbed the bridge of his nose. "General Armstrong," he began, in a tone that made her bristle. "_Olivier_."

Her brows furrowed at the blatant breach of protocol, and she watched him flinch at his faux pas. "Ah– I mean _sir_, of course. My apologies," he said, although she doubted very much he was even the least bit sorry. "Do you not think this is exactly what Drachma wants? For you to go on some harebrained rescue mission – is it not playing right into their hands?" And by the downright condescending look he gave her, he might as well have been talking to an errant girl-child, and not the Major General of Briggs. Olivier strongly contemplated throwing him off the Drachman side of the Wall.

Instead she raised a carefully controlled brow. "If I may ask, how long have you been actively fighting Drachma, Major Stuart?"

The Major opened his mouth, then closed it. "Not...very long, ma'am," he admitted.

"Hmm. And have you been part of any of our operations since you arrived here, or assisted in fending off an attempted invasion?"

He kept his mouth firmly shut at that, and something dark lingered in his eyes. "No, _sir_." The title was uttered with enough vitriol to be a curse, and she smirked.

"Well then, how about leaving the decision-making to those who know what they're talking about?" She placed her hand on the table with enough force to make the nervous Major jump, and she could swear she saw a smirk flicker along Major Miles' mouth. "I've been fighting Drachma since before you joined the military, Major Stuart. I _know_ Drachma. I know what they do with prisoners, those they deem valuable and those they don't. Captain Buccaneer is valuable to them, and that is dangerous to _us._"

She drew her hand back, and recrossed her arms. "Which is why a retrieval mission is of utmost importance. If I'm correct they'll be holding him at the nearest patrol post a few leagues beyond the Wall. It's well out of our line of fire, but we've got it on a map as sure as you've got your home address in Central."

Major Flop-Sweat spoke up then. "B-but I don't understand. Why do _you_ have to be the one to do this, General Armstrong? Why can't you leave it to one of your men? S-surely an officer of your rank is better suited at your post here in Briggs?"

She allowed her gaze to linger on him – this man-boy who shouldn't by rights have reached the rank of Major yet, but State Alchemists had that privilege, the spoiled brats. It was such a _Central_ thing to say, too – to assume that if you wore the right embellishments on your uniform, you were entitled to making others do your dirty work for you. As though fighting your way to the top of the ladder meant you could sit back, throw your feet up and watch your men fight in your stead. _And these are the men the Führer surrounds himself with, _she scoffed inwardly. _Pathetic. _

"I have nothing but the utmost trust in my men," she said, schooling her ire with a patience derived from years at the receiving end of subtle-to-blatant sexist remarks from patronizing old men. "But this is not a routine mission. It needs someone who's been across the border before, who knows the climate and the enemy. I am the most logical choice."

Major Wouldn't-Know-His-Place-If-He-Had-A-Goddamn-_Map_ made a noise of discontent. "But General, surely–"

"Major Stuart, I was under the impression that I held the highest rank here in Briggs," she cut him off, voice hard and cold like ice. "What is it they say...'my word is law'?" She glared at him, her forced pleasantries like bile in her throat when she wanted nothing more than to shove his tongue down his windpipe. "Or would you disagree?"

He returned the glare, but didn't correct her. "You are correct, ma'am, but I am afraid I cannot condone this rash and, if I may be so bold, _emotional_ choice of action when it will leave your men defenceless and Briggs in danger of invasion."

She marvelled silently at the amount of insults the man could cram into a single sentence, and how much more she could take before she really did throw him off the side of the Wall. She was used to remarks from Central goons on the archaic notion of her gender's _sensibilities_, and she'd take a hundred insults in a row without batting an eye.

But to presume that her own men were incapable of managing the Fort without her – to _insinuate_ that she had not taught and trained _the best goddamn garrison_ _in Amestris_–

A meaningful look from Miles had her forcing her next breath out through her nose, and she tightened her fingers against her arms, drawing at all her years of hard-earned patience and control to keep from drawing her sword instead.

Major Stuart squared his shoulders a little, as though it made him feel larger, and smiled a smile that told her he believed full and well he'd talked her into submission. "I am going to have to send word to Central about this before a decision is made," he declared, then with a look towards Major Flop-Sweat, made to rise. For his part, the stuttering State Alchemist seemed visibly uncomfortable with the decision, and sent her an apologetic look that made her urge to kill him recede by a smidgen.

Major One-Wrong-Word-Away-From-Meeting-His-Bloody-End smiled amicably. "I will phone Central tomorrow morning, and we will make a decision shortly after. My sincerest apologies for the loss of your man, Major General. I do hope we can resolve this somehow without risking too many lives."

She didn't bother with a reply, nor did she rise or extend a hand for him to shake, and he pulled his back awkwardly, before moving to leave the room, Flop-Sweat at his heels like a pup. When the door had closed behind them, she counted to ten in her head – the steps it would take them to get out of definite earshot. Miles stood by the door, and when she'd reached the number nine, nodded his head. "You can breathe now, General."

The table rattled with the force of her blow, and she clenched her fist tight against the top. "I'm _fine._"

He raised a brow. "Sir, I'm not a violent man, but even I wanted to kick him off the edge of the Fort."

She smirked, but it felt like a grimace. "Those Central _asshats_," she spat viciously. "Who do they think they are, coming here to lecture me how to do my damn job?" She scoffed. "They don't know squat about this garrison if they think my constant presence is needed for things to go around. Just because _they_ need someone to hold their leash and a Master to tell them to heel doesn't mean they're free to consider _my_ _men_ as part of the same ilk," she muttered.

Miles smiled wryly. "Their ignorance will work to our advantage, sir."

She snorted. "And a damn good thing that is."

"So, tonight?"

She looked up, and nodded brusquely. "The very minute those fops are in their bunks."

He returned the nod. "I'll set up the patrol," he said. "They'll be discreet."

"Good," she said, but didn't rise from her chair. A moment passed before she continued. "I'll be going alone, Major." She looked at him. "I'll need someone here I know can wrangle those goons while I'm gone."

He hesitated, but nodded. "Aa."

"You understand, of course?"

He smirked. "Aye, ma'am. I'll keep the men briefed in your absence."

She nodded, and drummed her fingers against the tabletop. "I'll need rations for two," she said, almost to herself. "Extra bandages – there's no knowing what state he'll be in. Extra gear and camouflage." She snorted softly, and muttered, "His gear alone will take up most of the space in my pack, the damn bear."

"Have you thought what you'll do once you find the patrol post?"

She smirked. "Well, I won't go knocking on their front door, if that's what you're asking." She shook her head. "I haven't gotten there, yet. First I need to make sure that's where they're keeping him. After that..." she trailed off with a shrug. "I can think on my feet."

He nodded, and moved towards the door. "I'll go rearrange the patrol roster," he said. "You should pack."

She cut a glance towards him. "I won't insult you by reminding you of the discretion necessary for this mission to succeed."

He smirked. "Noted, ma'am. I thank you for your trust." He paused then, and looked at her long and hard. She raised a brow in question.

"What?"

The part-Ishvalan shook his head, an odd smile on his face. "Nothing. I was just thinking that Captain Buccaneer is a lucky man."

She glared. "Don't confuse my loyalty for some passing fancy, Major," she warned. "I won't have it said that I'm playing favourites."

He shook his head. "I'd never think that, ma'am. No soldier under your command would." Then he smiled again – the same, knowing smile as before that spoke volumes where his words didn't. She'd never harboured any misconceptions that he was in any way ignorant of the identity of the man who shared her bed, but it was one thing to know and quite another to be presented with the fact outright. "But you're allowed your share of bias, even as the General of Briggs," he said then, surprising her. "Frankly, for all you've given for us, our support is the least we can give in return."

And with that said he turned to leave, closing the door behind him and leaving her sitting by the table. Her hand was still clenched into a fist, and she loosened her fingers gingerly, until her hand was splayed flat on the tabletop. The turmoil within her had settled somewhat, but she watched the door with furrowed brows, turning over the events of the past few hours in her mind. It hadn't been a full day yet, but it might have been a week for all the crap she'd had to deal with. She hadn't thought the Central goons would make it easy for her, but she hadn't thought they'd go to such lengths to keep her in check, either. But as was so often the case with her men, they rose to the occasion when she needed them.

"Support, huh?" she muttered as she made to rise, striding towards her locker to tug out her rucksack and gear, a pleased smirk lingering along her mouth.

"That's something you didn't count on, eh, Central Majors?"

* * *

Night-time in Briggs was often an eerily silent thing, the quiet expanse of of the great mountain range like a graveyard for an outsider, but for a soldier of Briggs, the solitude was a blessing. A quiet night meant a peaceful night, and a peaceful night meant rest, even for the wicked. For those whose ears were used to the sound of cannon-fire and the thundering footfalls of an enemy battalion, the quiet was a rare blessing.

And for those who sought to lurk like wraiths in the dark, it was a perfect disguise.

"The patrols?" Olivier asked as she packed her rucksack, moving between her bunk and the map splayed open on her desk. A candle burned bright in the corner, wax dripping onto the tabletop and the map, and there was no other source of light in the room. She'd had to keep up the appearance of going to bed, after all, and wouldn't risk her appointed watchdogs catching on to her plans if she could help it.

"Have all been briefed. They'll turn a blind eye for tonight, and be none the wiser in the morning," Miles responded.

"Good." She hesitated, hand hovering over the extra roll of bandages, but a split second decision had her stuffing them into the bag. Folding the map and shoving it inside before tying the strings together, she sat down on the table, grabbing a fistful of hair in one hand as she set about twining the loose locks into a tight braid. Miles watched her work silently for a long moment, an unreadable look on his dark face.

"What?" she snapped, feeling suddenly exposed under the red of his naked gaze.

He smirked. "Nothing. I've just never seen you with your hair braided, ma'am."

She scoffed, but said nothing as she continued, deft fingers working her usually unbound hair into strict submission, from the top of her head and down the back of her neck. For a colour as easily recognizable as hers, she'd need it to stick out as little as possible. Braiding it tight and close to the base of her skull was the most sensible option if she intended to get anywhere without being discovered once she crossed into Drachma.

"Did Captain Buccaneer teach you that?"

She glared from beneath one of her raised arms, but said nothing as she continued working her long locks into a tightly wound plait. Going by the smile on his face, though, her silence said more than enough, but she wasn't about to grant him the satisfaction of an actual answer. Her hands didn't still in their ministrations until she was at the very ends of her hair, and she wound an elastic around it before she set about pinning the braid to the base of her skull, winding it round and round until it was secured at the back of her head. Next she tugged a warm hat over it, and tucked any loose locks she could find into its confines.

When she turned back, Miles was holding her rucksack, and she took it without word or ceremony. Without her heavy winter coat, her gear felt deceptively light, but she knew as well as any Briggs soldier that bulk didn't always mean good insulation. Her camouflage gear was designed to withstand severe drops in temperature the likes of which they didn't see even at the Fort, and consisted of several layers of thin wool beneath a white parka and pants to hide her from prying eyes. It had been years since she'd last needed to resort to hiding her identity, but she'd been a soldier a long time before she'd become a General, and so she fell back into the familiar routine with little effort.

Checking to see if the coast was clear, Miles motioned for her to follow, and they began their trek from her quarters towards the stairway that would take them to the lowest level of the Fort near the foot of the mountain. Closing the door behind her, she followed at his heels, eyes and ears alert for any unwanted company. They passed a patrol on their way, but the soldier seemed to see right through her, though she caught the mute salute as she passed, and felt a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. _My loyal cubs. _

When they reached the lowest level, there wasn't even a patrol in sight, and she risked speaking for the first time since setting out from her quarters. "If you don't hear back from me in a week, assume we're both dead," she said, voice a low drum in the quiet of the corridor. "There'll be no other men risked for the sake of our hides. Have I made myself clear, Major?"

Miles nodded, but the reluctance hung heavy like a cloak to his tense shoulders. "Yes, ma'am."

"And I trust you to take care of things while I'm gone. Make sure those Central whelps stay put – I won't have them defiling my Fort with their sorry excuse of military protocol."

A wry smile lingered along his mouth. "Aye, ma'am."

They'd reached the end of the corridor, and stopped before the heavy door that would take her out on the ground level on the Drachman side of Briggs. She regarded it only a moment, before curling a gloved hand around the handle and tugging it open, the shriek of metal-on-metal loud in the empty corridor, but no one came running. A gust of cold wind and snow escaped inside, and she tugged her hood over her head, tying the strings tight and snug as she adjusted her tinted goggles. With a last look at Miles, she nodded at his salute, before slipping out without another word.

The loud _bang_ of the door closing behind her seemed to die on the wind howling around her covered ears, and she clenched her eyes against the flurry of snow as she pushed forward. All around her was the cold and the endless white of winter, but she drew the weather around herself like a physical cloak, knowing it would hide her passage. If anyone knew the North it was she, it's designated sovereign, and she embraced the wily temperament of the Northern cold like an old friend.

And with her resolution hard-as-ice a comforting weight on her shoulders, The Queen of Briggs strode fearless into enemy territory.

* * *

AN: Queen of the North coming through, Drachma better watch out /snaps fingers.


	2. Part 2

AN: This lady is a woman after my own heart, and I'd have loved to see so much more of her in the series. Alas, I'll have to settle for writing fanfiction /shrugs. Hope you're enjoying it so far!

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

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**Part 2**

"What do you mean the Major General is _gone?"_

Miles regarded the Central Major calmly. "Exactly what I said. We can't seem to find her anywhere."

The Major sputtered, and the nervous State Alchemist at his side flinched at his every movement, as though he'd lash out any minute. "But that's impossible – she was here just last night! Where could she have gone?"

Miles shrugged, and kept his expression carefully neutral. "Well, it just so happens that she disappears from time to time. You know how women are," he said with a smirk. "She's probably dealing with some _emotional_ matters away from the eyes of the men. It's hard for her sometimes, I think." He shrugged. "Mah, it can't be helped."

He turned to leave, but the hand on his shoulder had him stopping, and he turned his head, a brow raised in question. Major Stuart glared. "She's gone over the border, hasn't she?" he accused. "This is all some ploy you cooked up while we were asleep!"

Miles blinked. "Over the border? You mean to Drachma? I think the night watch would have caught her if that was the case, wouldn't you? We don't make a habit of letting people slip past our defences, even from the inside." He turned his gaze to somewhere further down the corridor, calling for the guard stationed at the entrance on the opposite end. "Soldier! Has there been anything to report from last night?"

The guard turned towards him, expression puzzled. "Only the howl of the wind, Major," he said, before he turned back to his post. Major Stuart looked about ready to explode, and Miles had to keep from smiling. When the increasingly red-cheeked Major turned his gaze away from the guard, Miles caught the ghost of a smile on the latter's face.

He calmly removed the hand from his shoulder. "Now, Major Stuart, don't you think one of the patrols would have caught her if she'd tried to leave? Or do you think a _woman_ could outwit the Briggs Watch on her own?"

The Major glared, cold eyes seeming to attempt to look through him. He pointed an accusing finger. "I don't know what you're all planning, but I'll be having words with Central about this!" he hissed, before turning on his heel to stalk away. The nervous State Alchemist startled as he pushed past him, but scrambled to follow. Miles watched them leave, brows furrowing behind his goggles as he followed their departure all the way down the length of the corridor. He wasn't an overt fan of Central – no Briggs soldier was, when it came down to it, but there were some good apples amongst the rotten ones. It was just a shame none of them were ever sent to Briggs.

With a controlled breath, he allowed his tense shoulders to loosen somewhat, and finally let the smile he'd been keeping under wraps tug at the corners of his mouth.

"Good show."

He turned his head, one brow raised, to regard Karley in the doorway. The Communications Officer grinned as he leaned his weight against the heavy metal doorpost. "Splendid, really. Top notch performance. If you'd kept it up a little longer he'd have burst a blood-vessel for sure."

Miles snorted. "I half-expected him to shout 'witchcraft' or something similar." He shook his head with a smirk. "Gullible Central dogs." He didn't for a moment think the Major had bought his bullshit about the General needing time to herself, but then he hadn't denied the claim, either. It just went to show how far Central still had to go to chuck their outdated opinions on the female gender.

Karley smirked. "You got that right." He fell into step beside Miles as he made for the mess hall. When they'd walked a sufficient distance from the direction the Central officers had gone, and made sure the only ears listening were those of the occasional patrol, he asked, voice low, "So, she made it, then?"

Miles nodded. "Left last night. Shouldn't be far from the outpost unless she's had trouble on the way, but I highly doubt it. Few men know the area like she does."

Karleyhummed, a smile stretching along his mouth. "That's our Queen for you."

Miles smirked. "How are communications at present?"

He shrugged, but good humour flickered in his eyes. "Oh, you know. The usual. _Very tricky_ to operate the telephones with the weather being like this. Snow storms left and right, I don't think we'll hear word from anyone until we've got the systems up and running."

"And would that take long, do you think? I was told an _urgent_ phone-call needed to be made today to Central."

Karley grinned. "Oh, I'm afraid that's out of the question. Technology, you know, and telephones are such fickle things. What can you do?" he shrugged. "Maybe a letter will do? I'd say that would take about a week to Central, give or take."

Miles snorted. "I'll pass on the suggestion, but I don't think it will be well received."

"Maybe he really will burst a blood-vessel this time. Do tell me how it goes."

Miles nodded, and stopped at the door to the mess. "Thank you," he said then. "For your assistance, and your discretion."

Karley saluted cheekily, but there was a seriousness in his gaze that betrayed his attempted levity. "Anything we can do to aid our Lady, and to bring Captain Buccaneer back." His lips pressed together grimly. "It's not much, I'm afraid."

Miles smiled. "It's enough. Keeping the Central dogs running in circles is something I think they'd both appreciate."

"Any Briggs soldier would," Karley agreed. "Damn amusing fools, though, aren't they?"

Miles nodded. "Just be sure to keep them fumbling in the dark as long as possible. She said a week, and that's what we've got to work with."

"And in the mean time?" Karley asked, and Miles paused, his hand on the door to the mess. He was silent a moment, before pushing the handle down, casting a glance over his shoulder as he made his way inside, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"We can only hope our Queen is faring well, and guard her throne for her return."

* * *

The Drachman patrol post turned out to be more heavily guarded than she'd anticipated.

Keeping out of sight behind a swell in the landscape, tucked between a jutting rock and some snow-covered bushes, Olivier watched the patrols come and go, circling the small cottage-like structure at regular was an unnatural amount of guards for a lone outpost in the wilderness, especially one so close to Briggs, and it only served to underline her suspicion that it was there they were keeping their new prisoner.

_They must have assumed we'd send someone, _she thought, _or they'd surely not waste so many soldiers on guard duty. _

She frowned, and chewed on her lower lip as she contemplated her course of action. To get him out she'd have to get in somehow, but with the amount of guards there was no way she'd get past them all on her own. Hell, even with a team at her command it would have been suicide to even try. So breaking in by force was out of the question, but what other option was there? Cursing under her breath, she threw a glance around the scenery, mind rifling through possible ideas–

–when her eyes caught the flicker of something dark at the edge of her vision. With a frown, she peered closer, but couldn't get a good look at it from her position. So after a quick glance to make sure she was still out of sight, she edged away, keeping close to the snow-covered ground as she moved. When she reached it, she was surprised to find it was a piece of fabric sticking out of the snow, and after a futile tug, found it to be attached to something heavy buried deep in the bank.

Or as it turned out, as she dug through the cold cover – _someone_.

"Well, damn," she muttered, breath cold before her face as she regarded the dead Drachman soldier still half-buried in the snow. A frozen expression gazed back at her, glazed eyes eerie in a blue-tinted face, and she hesitated only a moment before digging the rest of the body out of its cold grave. An idea was starting to form at the back of her mind even as she was digging, and by the time she'd gotten the corpse free of the snow, she was already stripping it of its uniform. It was still intact, though the fabric was frozen solid like cardboard. _Nothing a fire can't thaw. _

If her plan in itself didn't already constitute as harebrained, it was surely approaching it now, she mused wryly, but at least there were no Central idiots around to point fingers. Under the circumstances, she'd consider her find a bout of unexpected luck. _And damn good luck it is. _

When she'd managed to pull the stiff uniform from the equally stiff body, it was already getting dark, and so she set off towards the mountainside she'd come from. There was a cave there, snug into the rock and well out of sight and hearing-distance from the Drachman outpost. If she could start a fire, she could thaw the uniform. And if she could thaw the uniform, she had a way in.

It was as far-fetched as such ideas went, but she didn't let her mind linger on all the shit that could go wrong as she trudged through the deep snow, letting her thoughts instead circle the possibilities her new plan presented her. It was better than anything else she had, and a Briggs soldier was nothing if not resourceful.

When she reached the small cave, the cold had managed to crawl through all the layers of her gear, and the hands that attempted to light the fire were frozen stiff within her gloves, but she persisted until the flint yielded flame and the pieces of dry wood she'd brought flickered with orange. It was fully dark out when she finally sat back on her haunches beside the weak fire-pit.

Putting the pieces of the uniform next to the fire, she set about drying off and eating the small portion of the food she'd rationed for herself. Buccaneer ate enough for three grown men, and he'd need the strength if she was going to get him back to Briggs, so she saved most of the rations for him. There was no way she could carry his dead weight on her own, and if she knew Drachma, they'd be feeding him just enough to keep him on the brink of death. But she'd lived on less for longer and in worse conditions, and so she pushed down her hunger with stubbornness, and settled next to the fire for a few cold hours of restless sleep. The fire wasn't large enough to create smoke so thick that it would reveal her position, and from what she'd seen from her scouting earlier, the patrol didn't extend as far as the cave.

But sleep was a fitful thing, and she managed only a few minutes of shut-eye at a time before she started awake, either from the cold or the persistent howl of a wolf in the distance. She was a notoriously light sleeper, but Briggs at least provided enough safeguards for her to close her eyes without the fear of a knife in the dark. Although she could truthfully only count some nights as ones that let her succumb completely to sleep, and those were the ones she shared her bed. She snorted softly, wondering how she'd ever gotten used to his loud-assed snoring, but knowing she hadn't heard a silence louder than one without it.

Rubbing at her eyes, as if to rub away the traitorous thoughts that seemed to beckon her away from her single-minded mental track, she threw a look towards the cave entrance, and noticed it was getting lighter, dawn approaching steadily although she felt she hadn't rested a wink. What was left of the fire was smouldering embers, but when she reached over to the uniform she found it had thawed and dried somewhat during the night. _Well, at least that's something. _

It was a man's uniform, a good size too big for her at the very least, by the looks of it, but it would do. Dark Drachman colours, and accompanied by an ugly fur-hat. She frowned as she considered the piece of headgear, turning it over in her hands. She had no knowledge of how many women they'd had stationed at this outpost, so she'd have no choice but to impersonate a man, but the hat wouldn't cover enough of her head to hide her hair.

A thought lurked at the back of her mind, but she needed only a moment to contemplate it before she made her decision.

Reaching into her boot, she withdrew the small knife she kept tucked into the leather, and with her free hand reached up to tug her hood off her head. The hat followed, and with deft fingers she undid the pins holding her hair in place and the elastic band, and felt it tumble a heavy mass down her back. She drew her cold fingers through the locks made wavy by the tight braid, and snorted softly at her sudden bout of vanity. Curling her fingers around it, she gathered the hair at the back of her neck as she lifted the knife, and without another thought let it slide clean through, watching with mild fascination the golden locks tumble down around her to land at her feet. Sparing a brief lament for the loss of her one feminine vice, she set about shearing the length, until her neck was bare and it had lost every and all appearance of femininity.

Without lingering she brushed off the loose hair dusting her shoulders, and set about redressing. It was all done in a matter of minutes, and she shoved her camouflage gear into her pack, before setting about buttoning the unfamiliar uniform. She had to make a new hole in the leather belt with her knife to make sure the pants didn't slide down her hips, and the jacket hung awkwardly on her frame despite her stocky build, but she adjusted and re-adjusted it until she was certain she'd pass at a glance. One good thing about the size was that it hid her curves, she thought with a snort. _Small victories. _

Bending down to pick up the hat, she drew it over her hair, and allowed her fingers to linger against the back of her head, granting herself a moment to wrap her mind around the foreign feeling of _bareness _before she drew them away. There'd be time to regrow it later, if she made it back.

And if not, well, she wouldn't need hair if she was dead.

Reaching towards the now cold remains of her fire, she tucked her hands into the ashes, before smearing it along the curve of her jaw and her cheekbones. An illusion of a beard, if you didn't look too closely, and otherwise to hide the features that so clearly marked her a woman. Then she pulled the fur-hat over her head, brushed her soot-covered fingers against the seat of her pants, and set her pack against the cave wall. She'd removed only what was strictly necessary – bandages, a small ration of food and some assorted weapons, and tucked them into any available nook and cranny in her new uniform. If she was lucky, she'd make it back for the rest of her pack. If she wasn't...

Well, there wasn't much use thinking about _that._

She spared a thought of annoyance for having had to leave her sword at the Fort, feeling oddly exposed without it at her hip, even more so than she felt without her hair heavy against her back. She'd had to stop herself from reaching for it more than one time since leaving the Fort, like fingers itching for a phantom limb that was no longer there. Instead she busied herself with checking the weapons she did have – the gun tucked against the small of her back, one knife in each boot and one against her thigh, another gun beneath the swell of her ribcage, a garrotte and two hand grenades in the left-hand pocket of her pants. When she deemed herself prepared, she set off towards the cave mouth.

The trek back down the mountainside was easier than it had been going up, and in the early dawn light she cut a curving path through the snow, until she was hidden behind a thick pine jutting at an awkward angle from the ground. She'd watched the routes the patrols had taken the day before, marked them in her mind and memorized the time it took them to complete a circuit, when the soldiers passed each other, and when they didn't.

She didn't have to wait long before she heard the sound of footfalls in the snow, and the rough, guttural mutters of Drachman under a cold breath. She steeled herself, fingers clenching around the handle of the knife in her hand, and when the soldier stepped into her line of sight, slid forward like a winter wraith, one hand muffling the shout while the other slid effortlessly over an uncovered throat. Dragging the limp body with her behind the tree, she removed the embellishments on the uniform, fastening them to her own, and took the hat – the fur appearing in much better condition than the one she wore at present, which looked more like a drowned animal – and put it on her head. Then she shoved the corpse beneath the tree's low-hanging branches, and lifted the rifle the unfortunate bastard had been carrying. _Your aid is much appreciated, Drachman, _she thought darkly as she rose to her feet, casting a quick glance to make sure the body wasn't visible.

A pause to take a breath, and she stepped out from behind the tree, falling into the fading footsteps that marked his previous path, shoulders squared and head held high in her best imitation of Drachman military adherence. She only hoped whoever had summoned all the soldiers hadn't taken the time to get to know them all personally. She knew enough Drachman from her years in Briggs to manage a passable accent, but if she was called in to be questioned...

_It'll be time to think on your feet, _she thought as she trudged through the snow, saluting an officer as she passed, and breathing a little easier when he didn't so much as flinch. But then, blonde hair was common in Drachma, and though the man she was impersonating had been a good few shades darker, it would take a very observant soldier to notice.

What followed next were long, cold hours spent trudging through the sleet and the snow, following a circular path around the small station, and when she was finally called in for a guard shift, the cold winter sun had receded behind a thick cover of clouds, and from the wind howling about her ears it looked to be building up to a sizeable storm.

She'd never been one for prayer, and so spared only a thought for good luck to stay at her side as she walked into the outpost. A wry thought brushed against her mind as she stepped through the entrance, keeping her gaze low as she tried to memorize as much of the interior as she could in passing.

_How about that. Looks like I'm coming in through the front door after all._

* * *

"Hey, _Amestrian._"

The thick accent was followed by a sharp kick to his foot, jarring him back into consciousness, and the sudden movement sent a wave of pain crashing through him. He threw his head back against the wall in response, and the smarting pain was enough to distract him from yelling. Hissing through his teeth, Buccaneer felt his vision water, but clenched his teeth against the smarting wound.

There was a scoff somewhere above him. "Still alive. Surprising."

He glared through the fog that clouded his vision, feeling the feverish sweat that coated his brow run down the side of his face and the back of his neck. "Fuck off," he spat hoarsely.

There was a noise of discontent. "Pity we did not catch more eloquent prisoner," the guard tutted, the foreign words clumsy and thick on his tongue, before he slipped into his own language, "Though your resilience is admirable, Amestrian." The Drachman smiled, but said nothing else as he retreated out of the room. The following slam of a door was loud as all hell in his ears, and Buccaneer swore under his breath. His fingers itched to reach for the source of his pain, but he kept them stubbornly at his side, and tried to wrap his mind around the truth of his predicament, because he kept _forgetting_ and it was a new agony every damn time he remembered.

His capture was a series of chaotic flashes, and it was all he could do in his current state on the brink of consciousness to feebly sort through them. He remembered sending the cubs away when the enemy patrol had caught them off guard, and then a fight that hadn't been entirely fair, but it had been Drachma and he shouldn't really have expected anything else. Then followed the most excruciating pain he'd ever felt in his long, cold years of military service, at which point he figured he must have passed out, and after that it was all a-jumble until he'd found himself in what appeared to be military sleeping quarters, but which seemed to have been turned into a makeshift holding-cell. There was a lone window high on the wall to his right, but the snow made it impossible to see anything but white. Save that it was a cottage of some sort, he had no idea where he was being kept, or how much time had passed since his capture.

But he knew one thing for certain, the truth of it a constant, jarring reminder whenever he drew breath. And so with effort he turned his head, and forced his eyes to focus through the throbbing hell in the direction of his right shoulder–

–and the bare space where his right arm should rightly be.

_Fuck. _He groaned, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him, and thought idly, and a touch morbidly, that if the Drachmans didn't kill him General Armstrong surely would. First for being captured in the first place, and then again for losing his arm. He could already picture the look on her face, and wondered suddenly, startlingly, if he'd ever get to see it. His current predicament taken into consideration, things weren't looking good. In fact, they looked downright grim, and for a soldier of Briggs, that kind of admission was not made lightly. In the end, it all depended on what Drachma intended to do with him.

And whether or not he managed to get out before they made a decision.

* * *

AN: Did I just cut off her hair? Why yes, yes I did. A necessary sacrifice, I'm afraid, but at least hair grows back, unlike, say, _an arm_. Ahahahahahahaha /ducks away from thrown objects (whispers) _please leave feedback._


	3. Part 3

AN: For that anon upset with the haircut, keep in mind that it does serve a purpose to the story. But hey, _let's not split hairs_, hoho. If it makes you feel better, she'll have grown it out by the start of the series.

**Warning****:** there be **violence and carnage** in this here chapter, aye (though nothing overtly explicit, but better to be on the safe side).

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

* * *

**Part 3**

In retrospect, she should have known going in through the enemy's front door wouldn't go smoothly.

Of course, in her defence, she did get a rather good ways inside before anyone noticed that something was off. "Hey– Hey, you! Soldier with the blonde hair. Come over here a moment."

The guttural language took a moment to translate, but she turned stiffly, keeping her eyes low as she approached the officer who had called out. A good few ranks above her from what she knew of Drachman military embellishments, and rearing tall and gangly like a moose. His were dark, sunken eyes in a drawn face, and he had a severe moustache that looked ridiculous more than anything else. Her mind worked a mile a minute as she considered her options – possible escape routes, how long it would take her to reach her weapons and how long it would take him to reach his, and which way seemed more likely to lead towards whatever room they were using as a holding-cell–

The officer glared at her through thick, furrowed brows. "You look unfamiliar. Did you come with the reinforcements yesterday?"

She paused only a moment, teetering between choices. Then, "_Da._"

She was spared having to explain herself further when a shout from across the compound interrupted whatever he'd been about to say. "Sir, the Amestrian looks a little worse for wear. Perhaps we should give him something to drink?" There was a pause. "If we still intend to keep him alive, sir."

The Moose Commander grumbled under his breath. "Fine! But you'll bring it to him – last I attempted an approach he tried to strangle me with his chains." He spat. "Filthy Briggs scum." He cast a lazy glance her way, his earlier suspicions seemingly forgotten. "Why are you still here?" he snapped. "Go get cleaned up – you look like you've taken a dirt bath." He muttered something about the impertinence of some soldiers under his breath, as he set off towards the small kitchenette wedged into the corner at the other end of the room.

She saluted once, though he wasn't looking, before turning on her heel and marching stiffly in the direction the other soldiers taken off duty had gone in, to what appeared to be a makeshift mess, but which was really just a long table sticking out of the wall. Sweat clung cold like a sheet of ice to her shoulders, but she kept her expression carefully neutral as she took a seat at the very end. Some of the soldiers who'd come in with her were gathered down the length of the table, but she noted they weren't all sitting in one group, and that there were several who kept to themselves. _Meaning they might be less inclined to discover anyone missing. _

Busying herself with fixing a drink of water, she tried to listen in on the conversation at the other end of the long table, the rough words a little too quiet for her to hear properly, but she managed to sort out a muttered exchange over the general din.

"Were you called up yesterday?"

"Mm, and a damn shame, too. Was hoping to avoid going up against Briggs. Last time was a _disaster." _

"Ah, that's right, I forgot you were part of that." There was a sympathetic whistle. "Rough call, comrade."

"You don't have to tell _me._ And what's all this effort for one prisoner, anyway? He some big shot over the wall or something?"

"Did you even listen to your orders, man?" There was a patient sigh. "It's that bear-guy, the one with the mohawk? Big bloke, kinda scary-looking?"

There was a snort. "Scarier than The Northern Wall of Briggs?"

A laugh. "A different kind of scary."

"Well, either way, it's a damn lot of effort for one man."

"It's an important man."

"And if our superiors think so, what the hell do you think Briggs will do? I swear I get nervous just thinking about it..."

"_Relax,_ would you? With this freak storm building up, there's no way they'd even get here. And from what I've heard of the Ice Queen, I don't think she'll risk her men just to save _one." _A pause. "Pass me the salt, would you?"

"Ah, yeah, here."

"_Spasibo. _And quit looking so grim._"_

"Yeah, yeah. You're probably right." There was a heavy sigh, and a less-than-pleased grumble. "But do they have to keep him in the sleeping quarters, though? Where the hell are we supposed to bunk? On the floor?"

"It'll just be until the storm passes, then they'll move him to the Capitol."

She frowned at the remark, taking an idle sip of her mug as she turned the information over in her mind. If they were planning on moving him as soon as the storm was over, her window of opportunity was a small one, and she would have to count on the blizzard working to her advantage, rather than the opposite. It wasn't remotely safe to traverse the North, let alone Drachma, during a blizzard of this magnitude, as any Briggs soldier could tell you, but between dying at the hands of the enemy or the whim of the Northern cold, the mistress all Briggs soldiers swore to, the choice was a simple one.

A plan was forming, the links coming together in her mind as she considered the cottage interior, the distance spanning the length of it, how many rooms she could make out from her current position, her assortment of weapons and the number of soldiers. She'd need a distraction if she was going to get Buccaneer out, and if possible, she needed to get rid of as many soldiers as she could in the process.

The grenades weighed heavy in her pocket, and she mulled it over in her mind as she kept an ear on the conversation at the other end of the table. They'd gone on to talk about mundane things, and she took the opportunity to cast another glance across the room. There was a desk set up against the wall with equipment for communication, but with the storm that was brewing outside, they'd be hard pressed to get it working any time soon. Further down was what she guessed to be the showers, and around the corner, the aforementioned sleeping quarters. _That's where they're keeping him, and that will have to be our way out. _

A tense hour passed as she sat, going over her plan in her mind step-by-step, taking into consideration everything that could go wrong, and by the time she had a rough outline made, the front door opened to let in some of the guards who'd been on patrol. A forceful gust of wind and snow threw the door against the wall, and they needed two men to shove it back in place to keep the wind out.

Moose rose from his seat to address one of the soldiers. "Are there any left outside?"

The nearest one saluted brusquely. "Nay, Commander. This is the last of us."

Moose grumbled. "I hate leaving us open this way with Briggs so near."

The soldier let his hand drop to his side. "If I may speak freely, sir, I doubt even Armstrong would dare send her men out in this weather. Only a fool would go outside under such conditions."

The Commander snorted. "Don't underestimate The Northern Wall of Briggs, soldier," he snapped. "That's the first thing you've got to learn going up against the Amestrians." But despite his warning, he didn't send them back out. "But you are right – there will be no getting through this blizzard, even for those damn bastards from Briggs."

The soldier nodded. "Sir!"

Moose turned away, and she caught the longing murmurs of 'shower' from the snow-covered soldiers as they began moving across the room. Some of the soldiers seated at the table rose as well. "Looks like we should take advantage of the opportunity while it's here – the Commander hardly ever lets us use any of the hot water, but if we sneak in now we might get some!"

"One step ahead of you, comrade," came the muttered assertion as they moved towards the showers, until only Olivier was left. She felt a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. _Looks like I've found my distraction. _Rising from her seat, she followed the group of weary soldiers, heading into what appeared to be a small locker-room like space, where some had already chucked their uniforms. From the adjacent room, steam billowed out in a great gust, along with pleased laughter and eager talk in Drachman.

She made a show of taking her time with the buttons on her uniform, until the shower-room was full and she was left quite alone. Then she reached into the left-hand pocket of her pants, and withdrew one of the grenades. Walking calmly up to the entrance to the showers, she spared a thought for the boys that had been at her table–

"Sorry, gents. It's nothing personal."

–before removing the trigger pin and chucking the hand grenade into the showers, the _clank-clank-clank_ as it bounced off the tiled floor an echo in her ears as she retreated smoothly from the room. _Three, two–_

The force of the explosion sent her staggering forward a step, but she'd already drawn her knife, and when the guards came running around the corner and into the cloud of smoke, they fell before they'd even caught sight of her. Frantic yelling in Drachman rose over the din, and she used the confusion to slip further down the corridor, but had to duck into an open doorway as three more soldiers came running past, shouting at the top of their lungs. She took them out as they passed, catching them by surprise and silencing them before they could call out.

"Check on the prisoner! It might be Briggs!"

She recognized the voice of Commander Moose before he rounded the corner, and he spotted her immediately, eyes wide in his gaunt face, and she saw recognition dawn on his drawn features. _"You–"_

She was faster than his tongue, her knife lodging deep in his throat along with his words, and she made sure to hold his gaze as he fell, gurgling to the floor. And now it wasn't just recognition in his eyes, but _realization_ as she stared him down, gasping his last bloodied breaths at her feet. She keeled down beside him, and kept her gaze locked with his as she fished out a set of keys from his pocket.

"A-Armst–"

"You should have heeded your own words," she told him as she rose, a humourless smile curling along her mouth as she turned smoothly, cutting a path through the lingering smoke towards the door at the other end of the corridor, wiping the blood off the knife on the pants of her borrowed uniform.

"You should never underestimate The Northern Wall of Briggs."

* * *

He was woken by an explosion that seemed to shake the foundations of the cottage, followed by the thundering sound of footsteps and frantic Drachman voices bouncing off the walls of the corridor on the other side of the door. He could barely make out the words through the haze that his mind had become, but even though he was too damn tired to translate, some slipped through the thick fog.

–_**who was it?!**_

–_from Briggs!–_

–_after the prisoner?–_

–_the perimeter–_

–_where did he go? __**Where did he go!?**_

He straightened a little where he sat, and grimaced at the motion. They'd patched him up and changed his bandage once already, but hadn't given him anything for the pain save a drink of that thrice-cursed _vodka_ Drachmans seemed to favour, but the buzz had worn off some time ago and he was feeling every ache in his body now.

The commotion persisted, and he shifted, cursing under his breath as he caught another shout of 'Briggs' and 'intruder'. "Crazy woman better not have sent anyone after me," he muttered, although part of him wasn't surprised. There wasn't a commanding officer in Amestris who'd go to greater lengths for their men, but even she must have known the folly of sending someone to get him? Unless Drachma had made the first move, but from the little he'd picked up from the guards chatting, they hadn't issued any demands for an exchange yet. So if there really were soldiers from Briggs causing all the tumult, they were acting on their own.

More yelling in Drachman reached his ears, and he frowned as he kept his eyes on the room's only door, bracing himself. He wouldn't be caught off guard if he could help it; if they decided to do away with him in a last desperate attempt to one-up Briggs.

Then the lock rattled, and the door was thrown open as a soldier in a Drachman uniform slipped inside, before slamming the door and locking it shut. The soldier threw a quick glance over the room, blue eyes landing on him, before he pushed away from the door.

"On your feet, Captain, we don't have much–" the words died on his tongue as he halted in front of him, and Buccaneer watched horror dawn in familiar blue eyes as they landed on the empty space near his right shoulder. And through the agonized haze he struggled to place the voice – the voice he'd know anywhere – with the stranger before him.

Then the soldier was kneeling in front of him, and he saw the eyes, the Northern sky on a cloudless day, and the arch of her brows and the slope of her familiar nose under the dirt, and he knew as sure as his missing arm her identity.

"General Armstrong?!"

She wasn't looking at him but his shoulder, gloved hands hovering like she didn't know where to put them, and he wondered for a moment if he hadn't died and this was some twisted version of Heaven. Or Hell, as was more likely. _Lord have mercy on my messed up soul if that's the case, because this sure as hell ain't a fantasy deserving of Heaven. _

"Are–" she clamped her mouth shut, and cursed under her breath as she considered the bandage wrapped around the stump of his shoulder.

Despite the situation, Buccaneer managed a wry smirk. "Looks worse than it is, sir."

She swore again, loudly and viciously, and he noted with a frown that something seemed...off, about her. It wasn't the foreign uniform, but something else. Something that seemed to be missing, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He didn't have time to contemplate it when she suddenly shifted, hands finding the metal chain that kept his remaining arm linked to the cuffs around his legs, and he snorted softly when she proceeded to withdraw a set of keys from one of her pockets. "Snagged the keys, ma'am? Awfully subtle, for _you."_

She offered a grim smile but didn't look up from her ministrations, and sure enough, the chains clicked open, and she drew them away from his feet. "You'll be eating those words soon, Buccaneer," she said under her breath, and that was about all the warning he got before she was on her feet, heading across the room. Then she was pulling something from her pocket, and he realized it was a hand grenade when she withdrew the triggering pin with her teeth and chucked it at the far corner of the room, near the window.

Then she was before him, lips pressed grimly together as she tucked herself between his legs, hands pulling his head down as she braced herself against him, and he had only a moment to catch up and realize what she was doing before the explosion shook the building. The force shoved her against him, and he bit back a curse as the motion jarred his shoulder, and pain surged through him like an explosion in its own right. His ears were ringing loudly, and the smoke made it next to impossible to see anything.

He was trying his very best not to hack up a lung when she rose, firm hands tugging him to his feet with a strength her slight stature didn't at all suggest. He followed gingerly, and tried his best to stay conscious despite the insistent throbbing in his shoulder. She slipped under his remaining arm, her fingers pressing hard against his ribcage as she took some of his weight. "Can you stand?"

The bark near his ear seemed to draw him out of the haze, and he nodded with a hoarse 'aye', and staggered with her towards the now gaping hole in the wall. Snow escaped in from outside in a flurry, and the cold slammed against him and his feverish skin with something akin to relief, but it lasted only a moment before the wind was cutting to the marrow of his bones and he became very much aware that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Come on," she snapped, urging him on even as she was glancing over her shoulder towards the outpost, but she didn't pause as she pushed them forward through the snow. "Nice and easy, Captain," she bit out through clenched teeth. "But do pick up you damn feet."

He snorted against her, but did as he was told, shoving the dizziness down with stubbornness as he rose a little taller, taking some of the weight off her shoulders as he cut a path through the snow. "Just...lead the way...ma'am," he forced out.

In the years that followed, he'd swear she'd made some pact with the northern gods to get them through the blizzard, because there was no other explanation for why they didn't completely lose themselves in the flurry of snow and wind. He'd seen his fair share of snow storms in his years in Briggs, but like any soldier with their head firmly attached to their shoulders, had made a point of staying out of the way when the North threw one of her infamous tantrums. They lost recruits every year to freak blizzards, and it was an universal truth in Briggs that if you got stuck outside in one, all you could do was dig yourself a hole and hope the North had mercy on you.

But the General seemed to be in no hurry to burrow down as she all but dragged him, half-conscious and delirious, uphill through the storm, and he'd been right at the point of passing out when she suddenly veered to the right, and he found himself shoved into the mouth of a small cave in the mountainside. The sudden, startling respite from the wind had him staggering inside, and he had to catch himself against the wall not to land on his face. The weight of her against his side disappeared, and he heard her footsteps across the cave floor, the sound seeming to bounce off the walls. Outside, the howl of the wind shrieked against the mountain, and it was impossible to see so much as a hint of the landscape through the thick, whirling snow.

"Let's hope the blizzard covers our trail," she said, sounding out of breath, as she dusted the snow off her uniform and promptly set about trying to kindle a fire in the cold fire-pit, drawing some dry sticks of wood out of a pack at her side. "They'll have their hands full with the outpost, luck willing."

And he saw it – the strangeness that had lurked at the back of his mind since she'd burst into his holding-cell, and that he hadn't been able to put his finger on. It glared back at him now, when his pulse had slowed down and he'd gathered himself enough to fully take in his surroundings and the whirlwind of events following his escape.

She paused, the hands holding the flint falling against her thighs as she took in his expression. "What?" Although by the resigned tone, she was more than aware of what he was looking at.

And it wasn't her, but the thick, golden locks of hair scattered in heaps across the ground next to the fire-pit, their vibrant colour dulled by the ashes and the cave dust.

When he raised his gaze, there was a weak fire flickering in the pit, casting a soft glow over her face where she sat on the other side. Dropping the flint, she reached for the hat on her head, fingers curling around the brim as she tugged it off, and he sucked in an involuntary breath when her hair didn't come tumbling down over her shoulders. And though it was _her_ as sure as he lived and breathed, he couldn't for the life of him wrap his mind around the foreign sight of her devoid of her proud mane. Instead her new look made her jaw stand out more prominently, and he had a clear view of both eyes, her gaze wide and blue and fierce despite the exhaustion he could see clinging to her tense shoulders.

"Sir–" he began, but the words died on his tongue.

"It will grow back," she said with a shrug, dropping the hat unceremoniously as she pulled the pack towards her, from which she dug out a few rolls of clean bandages. "Now sit your ass down, Buccaneer, before you keel over," she snapped. "I need to have a look at that wound."

Despite his incredulity, he did as he was told, a wry smile tugging at his mouth as he rumbled, "Aye, ma'am." With some difficulty he sat down heavily, his back against the rock wall. His shoulder hurt like a right bitch, but he pushed the pain down as he gingerly reached up to remove the bandage.

Her hands were there, then, slapping his away sharply. "Idiot!" she snapped. "Do you want to catch an infection?" She glared fiercely, but didn't give him a chance to respond as her deft fingers began unwinding the bandage, firmly but with a lot more care than the Drachman medic had showed him. For his part, Buccaneer said nothing, but settled for watching her work, eyes gliding along her exposed neck that her hair usually covered. She'd chucked the Drachman uniform jacket, and wore a wool shift that clung pleasantly to her curves. He'd later blame his exhaustion for his blatant ogling. That, and the fact that she was making it quite difficult, sitting so close.

"Eyes up front, soldier," she warned, but there was a hidden humour there that she didn't often show. "Or you might give a woman ideas."

He snorted tiredly. "That kind of exertion would surely kill me, sir," he retorted glibly, "Though there's no denying it would be a damn good way to go." He barked a hoarse laugh, then winced as it jolted his shoulder.

She scoffed. "I'll take your atrocious attempt at humour as a sign you're not dying, yet."

He grinned, but said nothing else as she began to re-wrap the wound with a clean bandage, grimacing darkly as she did. He'd been unconscious for the worst, but he knew the Drachmans had cauterized the wound to some extent, and knew it couldn't look good. He'd lied when he'd said it probably looked worse than it felt, though, because it felt worse than hell.

"We'll have you fitted for an automail arm when we get back," she said then, voice oddly gruff. "Doc will want to do surgery, to make sure the nerve-endings aren't damaged." He wondered a moment who she was saying it for, but didn't voice his thought out loud, aware of his vulnerable position.

Instead he chuckled. "_When_, huh? Your optimism is quite something, ma'am."

She glared at him, blue eyes flashing. "I haven't gotten to where I am today with _pessimism_," she retorted smoothly.

He was silent a moment, watching her. Then, "Thank you." She raised a brow, and he smiled tiredly. "For saving my hide, sir. You didn't have to."

She scoffed. "What are you talking about?" He gave her a meaningful look, and she glared right back. "If you for one second think I'd have left you to rot in Drachma, you've got another thing coming, Buccaneer."

He snorted. "I'm but one man, sir," he pointed out.

She tightened the bandage with deliberate force, and he bit back a curse. She raised a brow in clear challenge. "And I am but one woman, but it was all it took. I endangered no other life but my own." She gave him a look, blue eyes sharp like glaciers but nowhere near as cold, before tucking in the edge of the bandage and rising smoothly to her feet. He watched as she went to retrieve the pack, removing a large wool shirt, and he could only splutter a mild protest when she returned and promptly shoved it over his head.

"Stop squirming," she commanded, as she pulled his remaining arm through the sleeve, and when his head escaped the confines of the fabric, her eyes were laughing in the fire-light. And he was again struck by the naked quality to her gaze, no longer hidden behind her hair.

"Is there something on my face, soldier?"

He grinned, and in an uncharacteristic show of affection reached out to wipe a smudge of soot from her cheek with the thumb of his remaining hand. She started at the gesture but didn't draw back, and when she didn't slap his hand away, he allowed it to linger against the side of her face. It was odd without the hair to tangle his fingers in, but then, he was not without his own sacrifice from this ordeal.

She must have caught the direction of his eyes, for her gaze softened, and she shrugged brusquely – the two gestures to startlingly contradicting he almost had to smile. "There are things more important than vanity in this world," she said then, her eyes meeting his in a meaningful look. "You should know that by now."

He attempted a tired grin. "_Aye,_ ma'am." But despite the familiar retort, there was more behind it than simple adherence and respect – the same way there was more to her statement than what was voiced explicitly. But then, theirs had long been a partnership of unspoken oaths.

The look in her eyes softened somewhat, and he watched as she reached up, curling strong fingers around his. "The way home is long and cold," she said then as she rose to her feet, her fingers lingering as he let his hand drop. "So be sure to get some rest. We leave once the storm lifts, lest we want Drachma nipping at our heels." She turned towards the fire, the flames throwing her shadow large and imposing against the cave wall. And though bereft of her proud mane, she reared as striking a figure as ever. He smiled at the sight.

"At your command, General Armstrong sir."

She glanced over her shoulder, a rare smile curling along her full mouth. "Aye, Buccaneer."

Outside the storm raged on, the wind howling like shrieks in the night, stretching far and wide across the Drachman landscape like a funeral hymn. The cave was cold and the fire yielded little warmth, but they huddled up against the frost curling its frozen fingers around tired limbs, for a few hours of respite from the day's events. The enemy threat lurked like a shadow beyond the mouth of the cave, but their exhaustion was a heavy thing, dragging tired eyes closed in the beckoning darkness.

But nothing disturbed their slumber, and the Winter granted them protection, these weary children of her fierce Northern heart.

* * *

AN: Who ordered the fluff? Oh, ha, that was me. Sorry not sorry, you were already warned, and I have no shame when it comes to shipping these two. And because Drachma is the most blatant allegory for Russia I've ever seen, I threw in the odd word:

_Da_: yes  
_Spasibo_: thank you


	4. Part 4

AN: Part 4/5 – time to head back to Briggs. A huge thank-you to those who've dropped a word or two of encouragement; feedback fuels the fires!

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

* * *

**Part 4**

He awoke to silence in a cold, damp cave.

A moment of complete disorientation followed before a surge of panic dragged him fully into the waking world, and he remembered where he was. His missing arm made itself painfully evident, as did the firm weight pressed against his other side, and he glanced down to find the Major General fast asleep.

For being a relatively light sleeper, she hadn't stirred even when he'd shifted, and he wondered how long it had been since she'd last slept. He still didn't know how much time had passed since his capture, but it would have taken her well over a day's journey on foot to get to the nearest Drachman outpost, which was where he assumed they'd kept him. If he knew his Queen, she would have gone as soon as his cubs had returned to Briggs, which meant she probably hadn't had a full night's sleep in well over two days or more. Exhaustion had been heavy on her shoulders when she'd dozed off beside him the night before and it clung to her still, tucked as she was against his uninjured side. She'd pulled her knees close, and had one gloved hand curled around one of her boots, from which he could see the handle of a knife sticking out. Her chin was tucked against her chest, and her short hair stuck up at odd angles, and he noted with a wry smirk that it seemed to curl more than it had when she'd worn it long, a particular Armstrong trait she'd tried to escape for as long as he'd known her.

He hesitated in shaking her awake, knowing she'd need the rest for the journey back. But the howling wind that had lulled him to sleep was gone and it seemed the worst of the blizzard had passed during the night, and the knowledge of still being in enemy territory crawled cold like rime over his skin. They couldn't risk staying much longer, if the Drachmans decided to brave the weather to root them out. They knew he was injured, and that it would hinder their escape. Briggs bears or snow-rabbits, they were still prey this side of the Wall.

"Ma'am."

The low rumble was voiced carefully, so as not to startle her awake. Most soldiers with a few years of combat on their shoulders were fitful sleepers, and a rough awakening could easily earn you a knife between the ribs. But she didn't start, only dragged tired eyes open in the dark of the cave. Her brows pulled together as she blinked away the sleep, before she lifted her gaze to regard him. There was a heavy weariness to her movements that spoke volumes where if he knew her right, she'd rather swallow her tongue than admit to needing rest. Shifting ever so slightly, she swore under her breath, and he lifted his arm gingerly to let her slide out of its hold.

When she rose, she stretched languorously – a infinitely private gesture he'd only seen on very few occasions. And despite the sombre situation, he couldn't help himself. "Feeling your years, sir?"

She threw a glance over one shoulder as she rolled it, snorting softly, though he caught the flicker of a smirk. "You're one to talk, Buccaneer. At least I'm on my feet." The good humour lifted some of the severity off her expression, and for the span of a single breath he forgot they were still in Drachma.

But there was no forgetting it, with his shoulder throbbing like murder. "Right behind you, ma'am," he declared, as he made an attempt to rise.

She was before him then, shoving him back with a warning look. "Sit your ass _down_." She grumbled under her breath about 'stubborn subordinates' and 'being more bear than a man' as she made for her pack, to retrieve what he found to be rations. "Here," she said, handing him a share considerably larger than her own.

He frowned. "Sir," he said simply.

She raised a brow in return. "Buccaneer." And she shoved the pack into his hand. "_Eat. _That's an order, soldier."

He grumbled as he accepted the ration, and watched as she sat back to eat her own, glaring all the way through the small meal, as though to make sure he ate the whole share. He didn't push his luck further, but shoved it down with a grimace. Very little was said throughout the meal, and he settled for watching her eat, noting the tension in her shoulders and the deep furrow of her brows that gave him an inkling to what she was thinking. The probability of getting back to Briggs without encountering Drachmans, or getting caught in another blizzard. How long he could keep going without medical attention, and if he knew her, how far she could drag his dead weight by herself if he passed out on her.

"If I fall, you leave me, sir."

She looked up at his remark, and her answer had formed in his mind before it rolled off her tongue, "Like hell I will."

"General–"

"Would you leave me, Buccaneer, if our roles were reversed?" she cut him off, the tone of her voice brooking no argument.

He raised a brow. "With all due respect, ma'am, I could have carried you if that were the case."

She glared. "I don't abandon my men," she said. "Either we both make it back, or neither of us do. It's simple as that." She rose to her feet smoothly, towering tall although the crown of her head didn't rise much above his where he sat against the cave wall. "So you better damn well not pass out on me!" Then she spun on her heel, and set about re-packing her gear, and Buccaneer could only watch her go about her business with a half-amused expression. It would have been somewhat humorous, if the situation hadn't been so grave. They didn't often butt heads; she was a damn good General and he'd never once questioned her orders. The whole foundation of Briggs was trust – trust in the commanding officer to make the right decisions, and in the soldiers to follow orders.

But their current situation complicated their usually simple symbiosis of leading-and-following. They weren't in Briggs, he was damn sure she'd gone against some sort of authority to leave her post to look for him, and to be quite honest, the whole situation was a bloody reckless, harebrained scheme that by rights shouldn't realistically end well for either of them. But there wasn't much to be done now except _try_, and she did have a point – he'd have done the same for her, although he was still privately of the opinion that her dead weight was considerably easier to drag across the Drachman border than his bulk. Regardless, there was no arguing with her when she got that particular look on her face. It was usually one she reserved for meddling Central officials, and when she dug her heels in it would take nothing short of an armed tank for her to so much as budge.

He looked up when she dropped the pack before him, to find her with her arms crossed over her chest and an odd look on her face. He raised a brow. "Ma'am?"

She chewed on her bottom lip – a rare sign that said she was mulling over what to say. It was rare, because she was usually very decisive and didn't often teeter between choices. "We might not make it back," she said then, after a tense lull. "And that's not pessimism, that's the honest-to-god truth."

He didn't ask where she was going with her words, aware of the knife in her boot and the ire that seemed to skitter across her entire form. It was another rare, intimate display, because she was notoriously loath to show any signs of indecision in front of her men. So he simply watched as she paced, once, before she came to a halt before him again. Then she surprised him by striding forward, almost like she was advancing to attack, and her hands grasped his jaw in a gesture that wasn't remotely gentle, before she pressed her mouth to his in a bruising kiss.

When she pulled back, her blue eyes were sharp like ice as she glared him down. "So don't fucking _die. _I didn't come all this way just to drag your cold corpse back to Briggs."

Then she was on her feet again, heading towards the cold fire-pit before he'd had a chance to register what had actually happened. "We've got about an hour 'til daybreak," she spoke, her back to him now. She glanced over one shoulder. "I won't ask if you're up for the trek, because we haven't got much of a choice."

Having snapped out of his stupor, Buccaneer snorted. "I've spent enough time with Drachmans to last me a lifetime, General. I'm getting out of this god-forsaken country if I have to crawl across the border."

She smirked. "Good man." She then went about changing out of the last of the Drachman uniform, chucking the garments into the fire-pit as she put her camouflage gear back on. Emboldened by her earlier action, he allowed his eyes to linger on the curve of her hips as she discarded the pants. Grave as the situation was, the prospect of imminent death made him appreciative of what could well be his last hours. The fact that he wasn't spending them in Drachman company was amazing enough – that he was spending them with _her_ was a downright marvel.

When she was done, her smug expression evidence that she was more than aware of his shameless ogling, she set about helping him – or dressing him, as he couldn't do much with only one arm. She was more efficient than gentle, but he didn't complain. "We'll get you pain meds when we get back to Briggs," she said, when he failed to hide a wince, her voice gruff as she buttoned up his jacket. Then she tugged a hat over his head, and stuffed his braid into its confines. When it wouldn't stay put, she glowered, and he quirked a smile at the sight.

"Please don't get any ideas, sir."

She snorted, but managed to shove it into the hat. "Don't tempt me, Buccaneer, or I just might. Short hair's infinitely much simpler to handle, you should know. _There_." She tugged the hood roughly over his head, before she tucked herself under his arm, draping it over her shoulders. "On three, soldier."

He steeled himself. "Aye."

"One, two, _three_–" the last was ground out through clenched teeth as she pushed up, and he braced himself only a moment before he gathered a tentative balance.

"All good, sir."

She waited a moment until she was sure he could stand. Then she nodded, and slipped our from under his arm as she set off towards the mouth of the cave. "We'll start at a slow pace. Keep an eye out for Drachmans." She patted her ribcage, where he knew she kept her gun. She'd given him the other, and he had it within easy reach of his remaining hand. _No point in wishing I was left-handed, _he thought with a soft snort.

"Aye, ma'am."

The landscape was a sprawl of endless white before them, with the odd tree breaking the conformity at random intervals. In the shadow of the mountain their trek loomed an uneven, rocky path; they'd stick as close to the mountainside as they could for as long as possible, but the closer they got to Briggs the more the path curved towards the plain. With regards to the terrain, it was by far the safest route, but traversing the open plateau that stretched long and wide towards Fort Briggs on the Drachman side would put them in plain sight of any enemy forces in the immediate area. Their best hope was that the watch on the Wall caught sight of them and sent reinforcements, but no matter how you looked at it, it was a gamble.

The wind dragged flurries of snow up from the ground, and he watched her readjust her goggles, before making a brusque gesture as she set off along the mountainside. Steeling himself, Buccaneer moved to follow, trying his best to keep his balance. It was an eerily foreign feeling, having only one arm, but he didn't have the luxury of a slow adjustment period, so he shoved down the pain, clenched his teeth and pushed onward through the snow.

The trek back to Briggs was hell, to say the least.

The cold cut like a knife through their insulation, and the weather that had seemed promising when they'd set out took a turn for the worse when they left the protection of the looming mountainside for the plateau. They took more breaks than what they were both comfortable with, but he was running a dangerously high fever and it was getting increasingly hard to stay on his feet. Without him to slow her down he didn't doubt she'd be back at Briggs already, but she seemed in no hurry, and paused whenever he lagged behind, waiting patiently, if a bit warily, for him to catch up. He pushed down the feeling of ineptitude, remembering her words back at the cave. For all her warnings, he didn't for a second doubt that she'd drag his sorry ass over the border if she had to.

They didn't encounter any Drachmans, patrols or otherwise. In fact, save the occasional moose loping across their path, they made their journey in relative peace. He'd long since lost any concept of time passing, but the steady approach of darkness was indication enough of how long they'd travelled. Night had fallen when he asked whether they should stop and proceed further in the morning, but she only shook her head, her voice a sharp bark over the wind. "Too dangerous to make camp here. We've got to keep moving, and hope the weather holds."

He didn't argue, though he spared a wary glance at the steadily thickening snowfall. _If we find our way back in this weather, we've got more than Luck on our side. _But he didn't voice the thought aloud, knowing her notorious dislike for putting faith in powers higher than herself.

Then, with Fort Briggs within sight, though it was getting increasingly hard to see through the growing flurry of snow, they got company.

"Drachma," she spat, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

He turned, brows furrowing behind his goggles as he scanned the landscape. There was movement in the distance – people, and by the looks of things, not theirs. No Briggs soldier would wear dark colours this side of the Wall unless responding to an attack. "How many do you reckon?" he rumbled.

She spat a curse as she attempted to see through the snow. "Can't tell. Five at the very least." Which was five too many, in their current state. He could pick out the shapes through the snowfall now, moving steadily towards them; they could be from the outpost or from a patrol, there was no knowing. Either way, they were outnumbered and on the wrong side of the Wall.

"Do we engage?" When she didn't immediately respond, he turned towards her. "Sir?"

With a quick look at him, then at the group approaching, she suddenly turned. "We make for the Fort. Move!"

He didn't need to be told twice, and set off after her, but she wasn't making much headway. The snow reached him to his knees – she was nearly waist-deep, but seemed hell bent on reaching the Fort if she had to crawl on her belly to get there. With some effort, he picked up his pace, pushing past her so as to more easily carve a path through the snow. For once she didn't protest, and followed close at his heels. The combination of the pace and the terrain was putting a bigger strain on his already overtaxed body, and he was wondering idly what their odds were of actually getting to the Fort before the Drachmans caught up with them when the sound of a gunshot cut through the muffled silence of his hood.

He heard her grunt, before she caught herself against him, making him halt in his tracks so as not to drag her down. Her other hand was pressed against her side, and he looked down in horror to see the white of her camouflage jacket seep through with blood. She swore loudly and colourfully as she staggered to her knees, the snow around her turning red with the colour.

"Sir!" Another gunshot rang out over the howl of the wind, but he didn't see where it landed. The colour was spreading, blossoming red against the white of her gear. "Ma'am–"

"It's just a flesh wound!" she spat, as she shoved herself against him, gloved fingers grasping the fabric of his jacket as she hoisted herself to her feet with a growl, "We need to take them out. We're not going to make it to the Fort at this rate." She grimaced, but regained a tentative balance. He didn't argue further, but curled his fingers around the handle of the gun tucked into his jacket, before taking aim and firing towards the pursuers. Right-handed or not, he was a damn good shot, though the weather was making it difficult to spot the targets. But a muffled scream cut through the howl of the wind, and he grinned, before felling a second. He missed the third, but caught him on his second try, and aimed for the fourth–

–only to be beaten to the punch when she felled the two remaining shapes in quick succession. He raised a brow, and she snorted as she tucked the gun back into the confines of her jacket, from which blood was still pouring freely. "What? Think me handicapped without my sword, do you?" She smirked, though it came off as more of a grimace. "Damn, but what I wouldn't give for a bigger gun," she muttered, fingers pressing against her ribcage to stem the flow of blood. When she looked at her hand, her glove was soaked through.

He'd opened his mouth to protest – what, he wasn't entirely sure, but he knew she couldn't go long in her current condition before she passed out. But she seemed adamant in her resolve to keep going without aid, and pushed past him, giving him no room to argue as she ground out through clenched teeth, "Come on! There might be more of them, and they'll catch up if we loiter." She spat into the snow at her side, the red spot bright against the white as the growing stain on her jacket, before she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

"And there's no way in hell I'm going down on my own doorstep!"

* * *

In all fairness, things could be going better.

She swore again as she staggered, catching herself in the snow. The blood loss was making her dizzy, and the weather was steadily worsening. They'd taken down the small group of Drachmans, but the weather was their enemy now, and if they didn't make it to the Fort soon there was a real chance they'd get lost in the blizzard. _And what a damn fine irony that would be, the Ice Queen felled by her own element._

"General Armstrong–"

"I'm not dead yet!" she snapped, as she tried to push herself back up, only to falter again as pain shot through her side. There was a hand on her back, and she forced a breath out through her nose. She'd suffered worse injuries than a simple gunshot wound, but with how little she'd eaten her body wasn't handling the strain as well as it would under better conditions. Paired with the exhaustion from a long journey and less sleep than was strictly advisable for infiltrating an enemy base, she was surprised she still had the strength to keep her eyes open.

"There's another group gaining on us, sir." The gruff remark was voiced with the grave sort of hesitation a Briggs soldier only used when things were really looking bad.

_Damn it. _She growled under her breath, wondering how many there were this time and if they could take them on. If she was correct in her estimation of how close they were to the Wall, Drachma wouldn't dare send too many soldier after them, as it would no doubt provoke an armed response. But in this weather, a small group could take them out without the watch spotting them. It was getting to be near impossible to see through the snow, and the Fort that had loomed so invitingly in the distance earlier was completely shrouded. If they'd both been in good shape, they could have handled a small band on their own and made it to the Wall with little trouble, but with him half-dead of fever and her bleeding her weight in blood all over the damn plain...

"Olivier."

She snorted under her breath. "Getting familiar now, Buccaneer? You usually reserve that for the bedroom."

He didn't remark on her ill-timed attempt at humour. Then, "You'll forgive me, sir."

She received no warning whatsoever before an arm wound around her midsection and she was hoisted up over his uninjured shoulder without ceremony. Her perspective was thrown into complete disarray, and the pain in her side slammed against her like being shot all over again, making bile rise in her throat. But her fury was a living thing, and she slammed her hands against his back. "Buccaneer, you will put me _down_–!"

"Have me demoted later, sir," he ground out as he pushed forward through the snow. "I'll gladly welcome it, so long as we get back!"

She resisted the urge to kick her legs to make him drop her. She could have escaped his grip if she'd wanted to, the bullet in her side notwithstanding – she'd grown up with two sisters twice her size and a bull of a little brother, and had learned her share of tricks once Alex had hit his first growth spurt. And in his current state, even Buccaneer would have a hard time keeping her in check. But her vision was swimming and she couldn't tell up from down in the all-encompassing white, and for all his concern about passing out, it looked like she was the one most liable to do so.

She couldn't see the Drachmans from her new vantage point, but by the way he accelerated his pace he wasn't about to take the chance to let them catch up. The wound in her side kept brushing against his shoulder, but she bit back the pain with a snarl. If she was going to reduce herself to being carried like an infant, she was damn well going to bear it! She harboured no misconceptions about her own humanity, and it wasn't the first time she'd trusted her life to one of her men, but her pride was a fierce thing and she had to physically bite back a snide remark about it being her rescue mission. But, if there was one person in Briggs who wouldn't hold it against her, it was probably him.

She didn't know if she'd passed out somewhere along the way, but when she came to it was to the sound of his gruff laughter over the wind. "Seems the ball's in our court now, ma'am." She frowned, and was about to demand what the hell he was talking about when she heard it, the sound muffled by the wind and her hood.

"–_eneral Armstrong! Captain Buccaneer!"_

She looked up through the flurry of snow to find a group of white-clad soldiers spreading out in a semi-circle around them, like winter wraiths manifesting from the blizzard itself. And in their midst, a familiar grin in a dark face.

"It hasn't been a week yet, ma'am," Miles greeted with a salute.

She snorted, and grimaced when her side responded in turn. "You know me, Major," she wheezed out. "Always on time."

Miles smirked. "It's good to have you back in one piece. Both of you." His gaze lingered on Buccaneer's right side, brows furrowing deeply behind his goggles. "More or less."

Buccaneer placed her awkwardly on her feet, but she had to lean her weight against him to keep herself upright, a hand at her side to stem the flow of blood that was making her look like a walking murder scene. He snorted. "More or less," he agreed.

Miles motioned to one of the soldiers. "Tell Doc we've got two injured, and keep quiet about it!" The soldier saluted, and vanished into the white towards the rising Fort she now knew to be at their backs.

She grumbled. "Those two fops still around, I take it?"

He grimaced at the mention. "Unfortunately. Major Stuart was adamant in waiting until you returned."

She snorted. "Until I was declared dead is more like."

Miles didn't correct her, but his attention seemed to be on something behind them. She looked over her shoulder to spot a few dark shapes amidst the snowfall, without a doubt the group of Drachmans from earlier. Buccaneer must have managed to stay ahead of them somehow, despite his missing arm and the added weight of her unconscious shape. She snorted softly. _More bear than a man, that's for damn sure. _

"Looks like you've got the hounds of Hell at your heels, General," Miles said.

She scoffed. "Don't confuse hounds with pups, Major." Then she rose a little higher, having caught sight of something dear and familiar, and she could feel her hands itch just looking at it. "Miles!" she snapped.

He started. "Ma'am?"

Grinning wickedly, she detached herself from Buccaneer, staggering forward a step. The bullet in her side smarted like all hell, but she forced the pain down as she strode towards the part-Ishvalan, eyes on the weapon attached to his back, no doubt brought explicitly with her in mind. She saw knowing grins stretch along the faces of the gathered soldiers, and heard Buccaneer laugh behind her. It was a real Briggs homecoming, and despite the throbbing wound in her side and the cold that bit all the way to the marrow of her bones, there really was no better feeling than the one that surged along her veins. _Oh, my cubs, _she thought as she held out a gloved, blood-soaked hand, her gaze on the enemy still advancing through the snow.

_It's damn good to be home. _

"Hand me that RPG."

* * *

AN: Don't we all wish we could say that, just _once?_ Or is that just me ehehehehehe.


	5. Part 5

AN: Fifth and final part! It's a little bit longer than the others, but it's got an epilogue of sorts, so that's why. Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: Fullmetal Alchemist and its characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa; I own nothing.

* * *

**Part 5**

"How did the surgery go?"

Doc looked up from her work, pushing her goggles up to her forehead. "Major General," she greeted with a smile, wiping her hands on her pants. She cast a glance at the bed, and its occupant. "Everything looks to be in good order. There was no permanent damage to the nerves, and his body seems to have accepted the socket we installed. Neil's working on the arm as we speak."

Olivier nodded. "Good work." She stepped further into the room. "Has he woken?"

"Not yet, ma'am. The pain medication we gave him was quite strong, so he should be out for a little while yet."

Olivier snorted. "Man's got the constitution of a bull. The drugs will wear off sooner than you think," she said, and without ceremony went to take a seat in the chair on the other side of the bed, gingerly easing into it with a slight grimace. She'd had the bullet removed and her side patched up, but had opted out of painkillers, despite Doc's insistence. She hated being drugged, and wouldn't allow it unless absolutely necessary. If she was well enough to be on her feet, drugs were out of the question.

"How's your side, ma'am?"

Olivier pretended not to hear the sceptical undertone, and simply raised a brow. "Fine."

Doc pursed her lips, but didn't look remotely convinced. "Sir, if you're in pain–"

"I'm not."

"–there are ways to fix that–"

"I'm _aware._"

"–and yet you don't want anything at all?" Doc raised a brow.

Olivier raised one back, and with a small smile, reached into the confines of her jacket to retrieve a flask. She held it up. "I'm an old-fashioned woman, Doc," she said. "Old-fashioned ways are more than sufficient."

Doc gave her a dubious look, but didn't push. "If you say so, sir." Although from her tone, she wasn't remotely inclined to heed her own words. But Olivier didn't mind – she didn't need a physician who backed away at the first sign of resistance. With the notorious stubbornness of Briggs soldiers, they'd have a garrison of injured men who thought they were fit for duty with a bleeding head-wound if that were the case. It was Doc who wrangled them all back into their sickbeds, and Olivier didn't for a second doubt she'd find a glass and a box of pills on her nightstand every night for the next week, no matter how many times she threw them out.

She drew her eyes away from the other woman, and to the shape on the bed – his sheer bulk making the latter seem almost comically small.

"How's his fever?"

Doc glanced over from her chart. "Manageable. It was a good thing you got back when you did – whatever medical help those Drachmans gave him would only have bought him a little more time before he'd have a nasty infection on his hands. Or, _hand_." She quirked a smile. "Pardon the jest, ma'am."

Olivier snorted. "By all means. He'd have a good laugh if he were awake, I wager."

Doc smiled, and went back to her notes, and Olivier leaned back into the chair, enjoying the peace and quiet. With everything that had happened since the patrol had first gotten back without him, there hadn't been much time for rest, disregarding the cold night in the cave where she'd fallen asleep out of sheer exhaustion. But she hadn't managed a wink of sleep after they'd gotten back the night before, partly due to the wound in her side, and partly due to the fact that she didn't like being kept in the dark. And Doc had banned her from the med wing until she'd at least pretended to have had a few hours of shut-eye.

She tapped a restless rhythm against the side of the flask and considered the man on the bed, drugged unconscious and with a missing arm. The man whose capture had warranted a response from the Major General of Briggs herself; an action Central would not soon let her forget, no matter which way she played it. And she'd play it well, because she hadn't held her post for so long without picking up a few tricks. But she wasn't the type to live in her own delusions, and so she was honest with herself, at the very least. She couldn't with a hand on her heart say she'd have done the same for each and every one of her soldiers. She had her share of bias, and there was no use pretending otherwise. Her own men wouldn't hold her humanity against her – she'd known that even without Miles' words to drive the lesson home, but Central...Central couldn't begin to understand the kind of loyalty that Briggs was built on, as she was no doubt soon to be reminded. After they'd gotten back she'd done her very best to avoid encountering the two Majors who were still lurking the halls of her Fort. And under the circumstances, her reasons had been valid enough – she needed to have the bullet in her side removed, she'd needed rest, she'd needed to see how the surgery had gone...

Of course, just because you made your best effort to ignore something, didn't mean it would necessarily go away.

Her fragile peace was broken by Miles appearing in the doorway. "Ma'am, it's–"

"Let me guess," she cut him off, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Major Long-Overstayed-His-Welcome wants a word."

He didn't smile, but she could see the effort it took. "Yes, sir."

She sighed, and pursed her lips, before pushing herself out of the chair. It looked like her luck had finally run out. "Well," she said, as she put the flask on the nightstand, and rose a little higher. The wound smarted, but she did her best to channel her focus towards the task at hand. "Something tells me there's no ignoring this."

Miles stepped out of the way to let her pass. "Afraid not, ma'am."

She muttered under her breath as she walked down the corridor, studiously ignoring the Major lingering in her wake, discreetly carrying the crutch she'd chucked at his head when he'd offered it the night before. But her men were known for their gall, and so he kept at the corner of her vision, no doubt in case she'd need it. She refused to acknowledge the gesture, and stalked towards her office, footfalls heavy and her ire rising like a wave as she considered the persistent Central Major, but she shoved it down with a good dose of stubbornness and patience, and by the time she rounded the corner of the corridor leading to her private quarters she'd calmed down somewhat.

"Major Stuart," she greeted as she stepped into the room, where Miles seemed to have deposited the two before coming to fetch her. Major Flop-Sweat, who'd been sitting at the table, sprang to his feet so fast he almost knocked over his teacup. Major Stuart was standing in front of the large map pinned to the far wall, displaying the entire Northern region and the Drachman border.

He inclined his head to regard her, an entirely unamused expression on his face. "Major General Armstrong," he said as he turned to face her. "How kind of you to make time for an audience. Please, have a seat."

She raised a brow at his tone, but didn't heed his request, despite the three cups that had been set out on the table. It was her own damn office, and she'd be the last to have a seat if she so had to stand throughout the whole ordeal. The wound in her side protested against her resolve, but she ignored it.

Major Should-Just-Take-The-Damn-Hint seemed to be thinking along the same lines, and seemed in her absence to have decided to only be as polite as his rank required, and not a shred more. But that was fine by her – she had about as little need for sugar-sweet Central officials as she had for Drachman peace talks.

"I've been a little busy, Major. My sincerest apologies," she said, but made no attempt whatsoever to make it seem like an apology.

Going by his slowly reddening expression, her intentions were more than evident. "Yes, I heard. How is your health?"

_Better than you'd like, I imagine. _"A mere bullet's never stopped a Briggs soldier, Major," she said. "A bit of rest and I'll be right as rain."

He was beginning to look constipated, but she kept herself from pointing it out. For all his dislike of her, he was powerless to do anything about it so long as she didn't rise to the bait. She'd had more than one Central official threaten to have her demoted, but for all their bluster, any investigation into her behaviour yielded nothing but evidence of a strict and fair professionalism that all Briggs soldiers swore to. She was brutally honest about her dislike of Central's way of doing things, but as a woman with years of military service at her back, she'd long since perfected the act of impudent politeness and aversion masked with a heavy coat of forced civility.

"You do realize, Major General, that we will have to bring your insubordination to the Führer's attention?" he asked then, with a tone of voice that told her he sincerely believed his efforts would somehow be rewarded. That there was an actual, realistic possibility that he would be the man to finally bring down The Northern Wall of Briggs. _Dream on, brat. _

She raised a brow. "Insubordination, Major Stuart?"

He glared, his patience visibly thinning by her pretended ignorance. "Your little foray over the border, ma'am," he elaborated.

She kept her expression entirely neutral. "I must confess I don't know what you mean, Major. We've made no recent attempts to cross the border to my knowledge."

His eye twitched. "Then please explain your recent _absence_–"

"Feminine matters," she broke in. "I wouldn't want to bore you with those. You know how hard it is, being a _woman_ in the military."

"Then, your wound–"

She waved him off. "A little skirmish with a Drachman patrol yesterday, as you no doubt heard."

He seethed. "And your Captain's very _convenient_ return?"

She shrugged. "Captain Buccaneer happened upon us by chance, Major Stuart. Seems he made it out of Drachma on his own." She smirked. "There was no need for a rescue mission, after all."

By now he was looking positively livid. "You honestly expect me to believe one man broke out of Drachman captivity_ by himself_–"

"A Briggs soldier," she cut him off, "Is no ordinary soldier, Major. I assure you, one _man_ is all it takes, Drachman custody or not. Or would you rather believe a _woman_ single-handedly infiltrated and fought her way out of a heavily guarded Drachman base, rescuing a wounded man easily twice her size? My, but you have faith in my abilities." She crossed her arms over her chest, biting down on the inside of her lip as the motion jarred the wound in her side.

The Major glared, and she stared him down. He could rant and rave all he wished, Briggs was water-tight and there wasn't a soldier in her garrison who'd betray her or Buccaneer if questions were asked. It would take more than one Central man-baby with a wounded ego to bring down _her_ Fort. She could practically see his mind work to come up with anything that could possibly throw her off. _Good luck, kid. You're ten years too young to even try. _

"If I may ask, General," he said then, and she raised her brows. He smirked, "Whatever happened to your hair?"

She didn't so much as twitch at the question, unprofessional as it was, and asked for the simple means of riling her up. But if he thought she'd lose her head over a simple matter of hair, he had another thing coming. _Don't shove your ass-old, sexist preconceptions on me, brat. _"Fancied a change, Major," she said, quirking a brow. "Was there anything else?"

He looked one well-placed remark away from drawing his gun, but only spat, "No, that is all." And then, as though he had to force the word off his tongue, "_Sir_." Then he straightened his jacket, and stalked past her out of the room, leaving the State Alchemist standing by the table. Despite his partner's hurried exit, he didn't move to follow this time, but stood his ground, determination winking in his eyes despite the fact that she was sure she could see tears at the corners. As he was of equal rank with Major Stuart, he wasn't in any way obligated to follow his lead, but by the way he was treated it was clear that had long been the nature of their partnership. But he hadn't moved an inch now, and stood, oddly resolute before her.

"Major Morris."

He jumped. "Y-yes, ma'am?"

She smirked. "You'd do well in Briggs. We value loyalty in our ranks – if you asked for a transfer, I'd be happy to pull some strings."

He visibly balked. "M-Major General, that's–" he shook his head. "I-I don't think I'd benefit this garrison very much, ma'am," he admitted, swallowing thickly.

She looked at him – his back straight and his shoulders squared despite the sweat clinging to his brow. For all his nervous fidgeting, he wouldn't breathe a word to his higher-ups of what had gone down during his stay, if his partner chose to push an investigation. That much was clear from his attitude alone.

She turned to leave then. "All Briggs bears start out as cubs, Major." She glanced over her shoulder. "Remember that if you were to change your mind."

He started, then saluted. "Y-yes, ma'am!"

Then she walked out, raising her chin a little higher to make up for the lack of her trademark throwing of her mane. Major Miles saluted as she passed, but didn't offer the crutch, and she didn't spare it a glance as she strode away, despite the fact that her side stung like a bitch.

She was strongly considering having that drink as she stepped back into the corridor leading up to the hospital wing, when Doc poked her head out of her office. "Right on time, ma'am. Buccaneer's awake." She shook her head. "You were right about the drugs."

Olivier snorted, but felt some of her anger diminish as she stepped into the med wing. "I know my men," was all she said, and Doc didn't question her further, but smiled a secret smile as she slipped out the door.

"I'll go see how Neil's coming along with the arm," she said. "I trust you'll make sure he doesn't try to get out of bed, ma'am. He needs the rest." The last was uttered with the edge only the Briggs physician dared use, on the principle that a doctor's order trumped those of a superior officer. Then she was gone, her light footfalls echoing down the corridor.

Stepping up to his bedside, Olivier dragged the chair with her, but didn't sit down. When she'd entered the room it looked like he'd fallen under again, but as she neared the bed he cracked open one eye to regard her, before a lazy, partly drug-induced grin stretched across his face. "My favourite General," he greeted, voice gruff and slightly slurred.

She snorted, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Good to see the missing arm hasn't impacted your mood, Buccaneer."

He laughed, then winced. "Going to take more than an amputation to manage that, ma'am," he retorted, before his gaze flickered to her midsection. "You're up and about, I see."

She raised a brow. "I'll pretend I didn't hear admonishment in your tone, Captain," she warned. "Miles learned the hard way."

He snorted. "Did you break the crutches they gave you? Can't see any, but I can't believe Doc gave up without a fight."

She smirked. "Crutches are hard to come by this far north," she said. "Someone else will need them in due time." She shrugged. "Miles can carry them as long as he wishes."

He grumbled, "Stubborn woman."

"What was that?"

He grinned. "You're a stubborn woman," he repeated. Then added cheekily, "Ma'am."

She raised a brow, amused despite herself. "Is that cheek I detect, soldier? To your commanding officer?"

He only smirked. "No one here but us, ma'am. I thought I'd take the liberty."

She pursed her lips, but it did little to hide the smile. He was a daring man, but then, she'd never have gone for anything less. And for all his audacity, he'd never once treated her without the utmost respect, regardless of whether he was talking to his Major General or the woman who shared his bed.

She pulled the chair closer and sat down, mindful of her still throbbing side. By the look on his face, she hadn't succeeded in completely masking her wince, but he didn't push the matter. "I'll allow the disobedience, for now," she said, as she sat back with an exhale. Being on her feet for so long had taken more out of her than she'd thought, but she wasn't about to admit as much. From the knowing look he was still giving her, he was more than aware.

She changed the subject, aware of the brief tension that lingered in the space between them. "How does your shoulder feel? Doc said the surgery was a success."

He glanced towards his right shoulder, and smiled wryly. "I can't feel much at the moment. I'll get back to you once they attach the arm – I've heard that's the _fun_ part," he snorted.

She chuckled. "So they say."

He was silent a moment. Then, "Olivier."

Her brows raised quite despite herself. Her name was a privilege he very rarely made use of outside the strict privacy of their respective quarters, and it was usually an indication that the subject at hand was of a significant nature.

"Aye."

His smile was a tired quirk of the lips, but his eyes were clear in the room's dim light – the drugs seemed to have worn off, and with them, his previous levity. "What you did was reckless. And unnecessary." She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her a look, and she pressed her lips shut. As his commanding officer, he was treading a fine line, but with a situation like theirs there was a time and a place for pulling rank. He'd stated his intentions clear enough with the use of her name, and so she responded in turn; the privacy of their own space was equal ground, and had been since their inception.

Of course, that didn't mean she couldn't disagree with his reasoning. "I did what I thought best," she said. "Quite disregarding your feelings on the subject." She raised a brow. "We're both alive."

He snorted. "We got back by the skin of our teeth." His eyes flickered to her side. "And only _just._"

She shrugged. "I would do it again," she said, with her usual brand of defiance.

He sighed. "I'd rather you didn't. I'm just one man. Your role in Briggs–"

"Don't underestimate the value of the life of one man, Buccaneer," she cut him off, and there was a world behind that remark, but she didn't for a second doubt that he'd caught it. She was a blunt sort of woman in most aspects of her life, but with matters of the heart she was fiercely private, and was of the opinion that sentiment should speak for itself and not need an overflow of petty words to accompany it. She'd never once told him outright what she found to be a self-evident truth – that he wasn't just a soldier amongst many in her ranks, and that he meant a damn lot more to her than a body keeping her bed warm at night.

But he knew that, and had never demanded anything else from her. And if he'd wanted a sentimental woman he'd have looked elsewhere a long time ago.

He grinned wryly. "The same goes for the value of one woman. A lesson Drachma won't soon forget, I imagine."

She chuckled as she leaned back in her chair. "Indeed."

"You're one hell of a General, if I may say so."

She smirked. "You may."

"And a bat-shit _crazy_ woman."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "And you best not forget." She smirked. "Your opinion is appreciated, Buccaneer, but your concern unnecessary. I will make my own decisions regardless."

He grinned. "Aa." His gaze flickered to her hair then. "I still can't believe you cut it off," he said then, a wicked grin stretching along his mouth.

She shrugged. "A small sacrifice."

He looked at her a long time. "No. It isn't." And there was a whole world behind _that_ remark as well. An understanding that it wasn't about hair at all, but the lengths she was willing to go, and not just for the life of a single man, but for him. He didn't speak the words out loud, but they rested there between them regardless, a comfortable weight whose sincerity wasn't made any less genuine by silent sentiment.

He was silent a moment. Then, "The Armstrong family resemblance _is_ more striking this way."

She glared. "Don't push your luck."

He grinned shamelessly. "Your brother is never going to let you live it down." He motioned to the springy curls she hadn't for the life of her been able to force into submission.

"I'll be avoiding Central in the near future," she ground out, as she ran her fingers through the short curls, tugging at one for good measure. "Until it's grown back."

He laughed. "I think it suits you, sir."

She scoffed, and shifted in her seat. "If you're trying to make up for your previous remark, you're not making much headway."

He grinned. "Oh, I don't know about that." He winced then, and she frowned. "Seems the drugs are wearing off," he rumbled. Wordlessly, she reached for the flask on the nightstand, and he frowned, recognizing it. "I was wondering where I'd misplaced that," he muttered, amusement colouring his tone.

She smirked as she unscrewed the cork. "That will teach you to leave things in my quarters, Captain." She took a swig, before handing it to him. "I took the liberty to refill it."

He grinned as he accepted it. "Doc won't be happy."

She raised a brow, and indulged in a suggestive tone she usually reserved for the aforementioned quarters. "Doc isn't here."

He rumbled a laugh, recognizing the tone for what it was. "You tempt, woman. I am an injured man."

She snorted. "You travelled several leagues with a missing arm and a severe fever, carrying my dead weight the last leg of the journey, but a romp in the sheets would do you in? I don't know whether to be flattered or embarrassed on your behalf, Buccaneer."

He grinned shamelessly. "Remarks like _that_ are what will get a man killed trying_, _sir," he said, shaking his head. "You are quite something."

She smirked. "So you've said."

"The honest truth, ma'am." He took a swig of the flask then, and sighed. "Ah, damn but that's how it's supposed to taste. Not like that Drachman piss-water."

"Drachman hospitality didn't meet your expectations, Captain?" she smiled wryly.

He snorted, and handed her the flask. "I think I'll avoid any unplanned forays that far over the border in the future." Which was about as good a declaration he'd ever give to promise being careful.

She smirked. "See that you do." And that was all she'd say to remind him, but the understanding was still there, visible in the smile on his face and the near imperceptible softening of her hard gaze. They were far from tender people, but theirs was an unspoken rule not to let Death have the last word.

He grinned then, "So, how are my chances of you crawling in here with me?"

"None in hell so long as Doc lurks the halls." She took a swig of the flask, and the pleasant burn slid a warm path down the back of her throat. "And you said it yourself – it'd get you killed," she added cheekily.

He laughed, and winced only a little. "How long did she say the average recovery period was?"

"Three years," she said, raising a brow, and there was a challenge there clear as day. "Think you can manage in less?"

He gave her a meaningful look. "I wasn't talking about _that_ recovery period, sir."

She burst out laughing at that, as the implications were laid out before her. "Bold man," she asserted. "Would you like me to ask her?"

By the sound of his gruff-but-booming laughter one wouldn't think he'd just lost a limb and escaped enemy captivity by the skin of his teeth, but such was the nature of the men bred in Briggs. And despite the events of the past few days, Olivier allowed herself the luxury of a good laugh, and of the playful repartee she didn't often indulge in outside his company. It was such a small thing, the banter between them – an everyday banality many took for granted, but her position didn't allow much for such luxuries.

But _this_ – this was hers; these moments between frost and battle and tank-fire, where she could lower her shoulders and kick her feet up and relax. Her actions could be questioned – would be, if the Central ass-hat of a Major had his way – but she had no regrets for making her choice, or for her sacrifice. They could question her priorities all they wished, they were hers, regardless. For the Major General of Briggs, the life of one man shouldn't hold the importance her actions in Drachma implied.

But she wasn't just the Major General of Briggs, and for Olivier Armstrong, the life of _this_ one man was of infinite worth.

* * *

The years following would render their affair less-than-private, but for a pair as steadfast as them, it did little to hinder their relation. And as she'd reminded him when the topic had first come up, they were both consenting adults and more importantly, too damn old to care about the gossip of the cubs, for whom the whole thing had been rather compelling. But the novelty had worn off with the first cold winter, and with their affair public knowledge in Briggs, it was easier going about their business. Which for him meant her spending the night in his quarters more often than not.

He watched her run the comb through the length of her hair, muttering under her breath as the teeth snagged in the thick mass, before a resolute tug had it gliding all the way through. He'd been in the process of tugging off one of his boots, but had shamelessly abandoned the attempt for watching her groom, the gesture as fiercely private as any she showed in the seclusion of their own space. Not a rarity anymore, but no less fascinating than it had been the first time he'd been granted the honour of witnessing it.

The years had seen her hair grow back to its former length and glory, and it was strange thinking back to the months she'd walked the halls of Fort Briggs sporting a head of springy curls that had with her accompanying scowl looked anything but ridiculous. Or at least, no one had remarked on the matter, for fear of her drawing her sword.

She'd taken off her uniform, and sat barefoot and cross-legged on his bunk, a startlingly domestic gesture for a woman who usually stalked around, decked out in full military regalia and with a sword at her hip. She'd snagged one of his shirts, as she was liable of doing with just about anything he owned, but it fell much too large on her frame, the collar hanging wide and low over one exposed shoulder. Along with combing her hair, it was a sure a sign as any that she'd retired for the evening.

She caught him looking, and raised a brow in query. "See anything you like, Buccaneer?" she asked, but didn't still in her ministrations. The comb slid through the golden mass once, before she started over again.

He grinned. "Aye."

She scoffed, but it was more fond than anything else. "Audacious as always."

"Honest, ma'am," he corrected.

She smirked. "Daring, regardless," she countered, as she parted her hair, and his eyes followed the movement as she drew the comb through it. "Though by all means," she murmured.

He grinned, but abandoned his previous attempt with his boot to tug off his jacket. He'd had his combat 'mail taken off for the evening, but his regular model was still in the workshop for maintenance, and so the one-armed venture of trying to shrug off his uniform was less than graceful, if not downright troublesome. He swore under his breath as the fabric snagged in the implant in his shoulder.

He hadn't heard her rise from the bunk, but her hands were there, comb abandoned as she pulled the sleeve away from his automail-socket, before depositing the jacket over the back of a chair. It was a wordless exchange on both parts, and when she was done she deposited herself on his lap without ceremony, tucking her legs beneath her. He raised a brow, and she raised one back, as though asking _what are you going to do about it? _

Buccaneer snorted, but wound his lone arm around the curve of her hip. "I didn't even get to take off my boots."

She smirked, and curled her fingers around the open collar of his shirt. "The boots can wait."

"Easy for you to say, sir, you're already undre–"

She cut him off with a rough tug at his shirt, slanting her mouth against his, and he laughed against her, fingers sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. For her small size she took up more space than should be rightly possible, and he grunted as her knee dug into his hip. The flash of a grin told him it had been entirely intentional, and when he shifted she followed, an unyielding force of staggering contradictions, from the deceptive softness of the hair slipping through his fingers to the hardened sword-callouses on the small hands grasping his jaw.

There was a knock on the door, and he grumbled against her mouth. "That damn well better be a Drachman invasion."

She snorted as she pulled back, blue eyes gleaming. "On your head be it if that's the case." She rose from her seat smoothly, the long expanse of bare leg drawing his gaze, before she strode back to the bunk. A groan of impatience lingered at the back of his throat, but he pushed himself out of the chair to move towards the door, where the knocking persisted. _Damn awful timing. _

When he pulled it open, the soldier at his doorstep saluted brusquely. "Captain Buccaneer. A message from Major Miles to the Major General." His expression betrayed nothing, but the fact that he'd shown up at his door said enough.

Buccaneer frowned, and heard the bedsprings shift from within the room. "Report."

The soldier didn't hesitate. "Scouts have spotted two people approaching in the direction of the Wall on the Amestris side, sir. A man dressed in red and...what appears to be someone in a full suit of armour."

Buccaneer raised a brow. "A suit of armour?"

"Aye, sir. Major Miles inquires about how to proceed."

He cast a glance inside, and when he received a nod he turned back to the soldier. "Tell the Major I'll deal with them shortly."

The soldier saluted. "Sir!"

When he closed the door, she was in the process of dressing back into her uniform, but seemed to have opted for keeping his shirt, stuffing the excess fabric into her pants as she tugged her jacket over it. "Spies?" she asked, as she pulled her hair out from the confines of the jacket, making it spill across the collar.

He snorted. "Must be a pretty bad one to dress in _red _out here_._" He smirked then, watching as she did the buttons with a brusque efficiency he'd always found rather intriguing. "That was my last clean shirt, sir."

She raised a brow, but good humour flickered in her hooded gaze. "You don't need a clean shirt for catching spies, Captain," she retorted, as she threw his uniform jacket at him, before crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll concede with it later if you're successful in your endeavours." The suggestive purr was just playful enough to mask the underlying warning of _so don't die. _

He barked a laugh as he drew the jacket over his shoulders with one hand, the attempt easier than taking it off had been. He'd have to get Neil to switch his combat 'mail back on before he went out. "Promises, General?"

She smirked. "If you've earned it."

He made to grab his coat, but strode up to her first, emboldened by her good mood. Grasping her chin, he caught sight of her raised brows before pressing his mouth against hers. He wasn't normally the one to initiate, but she allowed the brazen act with a chuckle, and when he drew away her eyes were crinkled at the corners.

"Don't get yourself killed, Buccaneer," she said to his back as he walked out. He laughed, and saluted, throwing a grin over his shoulder as he left his quarters.

"Wouldn't dream of it, ma'am."

* * *

AN: And thus, we've got the start of the Briggs storyline in Brotherhood, although for the sake of my heart I'll be in the corner, fiercely ignoring Buccaneer's fate in the series and shamelessly pretending they go back to Briggs and live happily, bantering suggestively and drinking scotch on the Wall (whispers) _I am my own woman I will believe what I want. _

Anyway, I hope it was an enjoyable read! I love the Briggs bears and this won't be the last I write of them, so feel free to stick around for more shenanigans. Feedback is always most appreciated, but if you had a good read then that's more than enough for me!


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